V 

1 


* 


i. 


f 


BY 

ELDREDGE  DENISON 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 

1916 


CoptwghlT,  1916 
Shermai^,  French  &  Company 


/ 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Many  of  the   following  poems  have 
been    previously    published    in  various 
magazines^  and  for  kind  permission  to  in- 
clude in  this  volume  such  as  have  ap- 
peared in  copyrighted  publications,  my 
thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  and  publish- 
ers of:  Munsey's  Magazine  for  Winter 
Magic/'    "  Manhattan/'    and    "  Love's 
Magic  " ;  Judge  for     My  Friend/'  "  En 
Route/'^    "The    Poet's    Star/'  "Just 
Laugh/'   etc.;   Holland's   Magazine  for 
"The  Cross  Road/'  "The  Star/'  "To- 
ward Evening/'  "  The  Journey/'  "  Pov- 
erty/' "The  Tempters/'  etc.;  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine  for  "  Berry  Time " 
and  "  Good-night  " ;  Washington  Courier 
for  "Love's  Trinity"  and  "The  Jour- 
ney ";  The  Parisienne  for  "  The  Model/' 
etc. ;  Holstein-Friesian  Register  for  "  Old 
Times  and  New/'  "A  Spring  Dream/' 
"  Alfalfa/'  "  To  the  Farmers  of  Amer- 
ica/' etc.;  Farmer's  Magazine  (Toronto) 
for  "Eighty";  Holstein-Friesian  World 
for  "  1915  on  the  Farm";  and  Life  for 

"  To   "  (copyright  Life  Publishing 

Company). 

Eldredge  Denison. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Manhattan                                              .  1 

The  Lord's  Prayer   2 

Winter  Magic   5 

The  Garden  Gate                                    .  6 

Sir  Robert  Grantley's  Horse    ....  7 

Song  for  a  June  Baby   12 

To     13 

My  Friend   15 

Alfalfa                                    .     .     .v    .  16 

"  Joe's  Annie  "   18 

Songs   20 

A  Cradle  Song 

A  Slumber  Song 

An  Enameled-crib  Song 

The  Partition  of  the  Earth      ....  22 

To  THE  Farmers  of  America   24 

The  Little  Old  Woman   26 

Berry  Time   28 

Sappho   29 

The  Cross  Road   31 

En  Route   32 

Night  and  Morning   33 

Memory   34 

Eighty   35 

My  Hope   37 

The  Model      .........  38 

Lullaby   ....    39 

Her  Garden     .........  40 


PAGE 

The  Neutral   41 

A  Spring  Dream   46 

The  Poet's  Star   47 

Life  and  Death   48 

You  AND  I   52 

The  Star   53 

Love's  Trinity   54 

Good-night:  Good-morning   55 

April   56 

The  Journey   58 

Mother-thought   59 

Thanksgiving   60 

The  Turn  of  the  Road   61 

A  Summer  Walk   62 

Unison   64 

The  Story  of  the  Steeple   65 

1915  ON  THE  Farm   68 

Mad  Song   69 

Just  Laugh   70 

Awake,  America!   71 

Poverty   72 

The  One  Woman   73 

Sanctuary   74 

Old  St.  Paul's,  New  York   75 

Betrothal   76 

FiDELIS  .79 

Old  Times  and  New   83 

''Deep  River"   86 

For  All  Time   .........  87 


PAGE 

Oli>  Songs   88 

I.      Comin'  Thro  the  Rye  " 
II.      Come  Back  to  Erin 

III.      "  JUANITA  " 

IV.      Old  Folks  at  Home  " 
V.      The  Old  Oaken  Bucket  " 

April's  Lady  .91 

He  and  I   92 

Toward  Evening   93 

A  Rainy  Day   94 

Baby's  Journey   .  .95 

Good-night   96 

To  A.  S.  C.  .   97 

Love   98 

Morning  Song   99 

Love's  Calendar   100 

The  First  Lesson   101 

For  Jean   102 

Love's  Miracle   103 

Indebtedness   104 

To  Her   105 

Sunset   106 

Contented   107 

The  Death  of  Summer   108 

My  Star   110 

Field  Flowers  .111 

Sleep  Well   112 

Trysting  Time   113 

My  Song                                                 .  114 

Love  Asleep      .     .   115 

Perhaps    116 


PAGE 

The  Answer  117 

Heartsease  .     .     .  118 

Good  Wishes  119 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  .     .     .     .     ,     .  120 

The  Land  o'  Dreams  121 

Her  Hands  123 

An  Old  Love  Song  124 

The  Return  from  the  Trenches     .     .  .126 

Hope-song  127 

Hospitality      .  128 

Ave,  Caesar!  129 

In  Apple  Time  ISO 

Misunderstanding   .131 

A  White  Christmas  132 

Whither  Away,  Summer?  134 

forevermore  135 

Donner's  Dream  136 

Dust  of  Roses  139 

The  Tear   .  140 

Friendship  142 

An  Old  Story  143 

The  Revenge  of  the  Flowers    .     .     .  .145 

In  God's  Acre  148 

Margery  in  the  Country  149 

QUATRAINS 

Love's  Magic  153 

The  Turn  of  the  Wheel  .     .     .     .     ,  .153 

Aspiration  153 

The  Night  153 


PAGE 


The  Tempters  .     .  154 

Hope  154 

Experience       .     .     .     .     .     .     •     .  .154 

Three  Are  Company  154 

Unfulfilled  155 

The  Pool  155 

The  Lie   155 

February's  Garden  155 

Gossip   156 

Vale!  156 

The  Call   .  156 

Parting  156 

Dreams  157 

Coincidence  157 

B.  C.  AND  A.  D  157 


\ 


MANHATTAN 

A  NARROW  window  underneath  the  eaves, 
Where  never  touch  of  sunlight  comes,  nor  moon 
May  shine  to  mix  the  magic  of  the  night, 
But  where,  across  that  little  patch  of  sky. 
Sometimes  a  white  cloud  smiles,  or,  in  the  dark 
Between  the  chimney-tops,  can  gleam  a  star. 
And  there,  night  after  night,  one  sits  and  stares. 
Up  from  the  depth  below  is  heard  the  shout 
Of  children  dancing  in  the  street  to  some 
Late  organ's  tune,  the  call  of  neighbor  wives, 
The  laugh  of  passing  women ;  and  he  sees 
The  arc's  false  moonlight  lie  along  the  wall. 
The  asphalt  smell,  hot,  heavy,  holds  the  air, 
And  comes  the  dull,  recurrent  sound  of  trains 
Upon  the  pillared  track.    He,  city-lured. 
Has  seen  mirages  pass ;  and  it  is  still 
A  narrow  window  underneath  the  eaves. 
Where,  weary  with  vain  quests,  he  sits  and 
stares. 

The  odor  of  the  town  is  now  the  breath 
Of  June  across  the  fields  of  hay;  the  sound 
Of  voices,  those  who  turn  the  windrow  back ; 
And  the  commingled  rumble  of  the  trains, 
The  humming  of  innumerable  bees. 
Again  it  is  sweet  summer-time  at  home  — 
And  oh,  the  orchard  walk,  the  little  lane,  and 
she! 


[1] 


THE  LORD'S  PRAYER 

* 

Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven. 

O  God,  Thy  Heaven  is  so  far  away 

And  this  poor  earth  so  very  sadly  near, 

That,  in  their  misery,  men  cease  to  pray, 
In  doubt  that  Thou  canst  any  longer  hear. 

Hallowed  he  Thy  name. 

Thy  temples,  shell  torn,  lift  their  sightless  eyes ; 

The  land  is  all  a  bloody,  trampled  sod ; 
Across  the  sun  the  glutted  buzzard  flies ; 

Where  men  have  battled  in  the  name  of  God. 

Thy  Kingdom  come;  Thy  will  he  done  on  earth 
as  it  is  m  Heaven. 

The  world  has  waited  many  hundred  years 
Its  coming,  and  the  weary  world  waits  on ; 

Thy  children  cry,  with  choking  sobs  and  tears, 
"  O  Lord,  our  God,  when  shall  Thy  will  be 
done?  " 


Give  us  this  day  our  daily  hread. 

Men  halt  the  hand  of  Plenty  on  the  seas. 

And  bar  the  gate,  while  Hunger  stalks  within ; 
The  outstretched  hands  of  those  on  bended 
knees 

Are  empty,  that  Starvation  help  to  win. 

[2] 


/ 


And  forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive 
those  who  trespass  against  us. 

And  shall  we  then  no  more  forgiveness  find 
Than  that  we  show  the  butchers  of  our  own? 

Must  we  appeal  to  the  Eternal  Mind, 

Not  to  the  Love  a  Father's  heart  made 
known  ? 

And  lead  us  not  i/nto  temptation. 

'Tis  those  who  urge  a  right  divine  to  reign. 
Who  lead  the  hosts  of  death.    What  they 
have  done 

In  heaping  all  the  stricken  land  with  slain. 
Is  claimed  as  work  for  brothers  of  Thy  Son. 

But  deliver  us  from  evil. 

Thy  ministers  have  blest  the  battle-flags. 

The  guns  that  hunger  for  the  "  cannon's 
food," 

The  fields  where  far  the  bloody  war-line  drags ; 
Have  prayed  "  Success,"  that  Thou  mightst 
find  it  good. 


For  Thine  is  the  kingdom. 

And  yet,  Lord  God,  we  must  believe  —  we 
will  — 

That,  somewhere,  far  beyond  the  greeds,  and 
hates, 

[3] 


9 


And  snarling  covetousness  of  men,  there  still 
A  blessed  land  of  promise  surely  waits. 

And  the  power^  and  the  glory. 

Thy  power  is  peace ;  Thy  glory,  peace ;  Thy  law 
Is  peace.    We  have  Thy  solemn  word 

That  they  whose  might  and  will  it  is  to  draw 
The  sword,  shall  surely  perish  by  the  sword. 

Amen. 

To  those  who  strive  and  die  that  right  may  live ; 

Who  wage  no  willing  war,  armed  to  defend ; 
Who  of  their  own  the  best  and  dearest  give 

To  aid  Thy  cause,  grant  courage  to  the  end. 
That  out  of  this  red  blaze  of  war  may  rise 

A  better  earth,  that  fire  has  purified ; 
That  by  the  blood  of  every  man  who  dies 

To  serve,  his  sons  be  nobler  that  he  died ; 
That  aching  eyes,  drained  of  their  final  tears, 

May  see  the  dawning  of  Thy  day  again. 
If,  then,  the  world  may  rest  through  coming 
years. 

That  blood,  those  tears,  have  not  been  shed 
in  vain. 

Amen  ! 


[4] 


WINTER  MAGIC 


Desolation  in  the  garden 
Where  the  royal  roses  grew; 

Where  the  crackling  seed-pods  harden 
In  their  film  of  frozen  dew ; 

Where  the  cedar-tree  stands  warden 
Of  the  little  path  we  knew ; 

Where  the  wind  comes  up  and,  sighing 
With  a  voice  of  throbbing  pain, 

Whispers  through  dead  branches,  dying 
When  the  long  night  comes  again, 

And  the  sleeted  grass  is  lying 
Like  a  swath  of  silver  grain. 

But  the  hearth  fire  bright  is  burning 
And  the  kettle  starts  to  sing. 

And  the  mystery  we're  learning 
That  there  is  a  magic  thing 

With  the  wand  of  fancy  turning 
Winter's  evening  into  spring. 

And  again  we  walk  together 
Where  the  softer  breezes  blow. 

Side  by  side,  and  wonder  whether 
Other  hearts  can  ever  know 

Of  love's  garden,  where  June  weather 
Always  bids  the  roses  grow ! 


[5] 


THE  GARDEN  GATE 


Dorothy,  I  must  relate, 
Kissed  him  through  the  garden  gate. 
And  the  peonies  were  quite 
Charmed  by  such  a  pretty  sight. 
And  they  nodded,  as  to  say, 
"  Come  again  to-morrow  day ! 
And  this  little  maid  of  two 
Seemed  to  know  just  what  to  do ; 
When  he  tried  to  hesitate  — 
Kissed  him  through  the  garden  gate ! 

Now,  once  more,  a  happy  fate 
Brings  them  to  the  garden  gate. 
He  is  tall,  and  she  is  fair ; 
And  the  peonies,  nodding  there, 
Turn  in  wonder,  as  to  say, 
"  Surely  'twas  but  yesterday  I  " 
And  this  maid  of  twenty-two 
Knows  exactly  what  to  do ; 
Seems  —  just  seems  —  to  hesitate 
As  he  leans  across  the  gate ! 


[6] 


SIR  ROBERT  GRANTLEY'S  HORSE 

The  author  understands  that  this  was  an  actual  oc- 
currence, and  that  the  horse  belonged  to  Sir  Richard 
Gillespie  of  the  British  Army. 

The  drums  have  rolled,  the  martial  band 

A  stirring  march  has  played, 
And  now  the  "  Fortieth  "  all  stand 

As  though  on  dress  parade. 

Yet  that  were  nothing  new  to  tell  — 

That  were  a  thing  of  course ;  * 
But  this  is  why  they  come  —  to  sell 

Sir  Robert  Grantley's  horse. 

The  horse  that  bore  him  through  the  fray 

When  every  rank  was  thinned  ; 
When  many  a  strong  man  tried  to  pray, 

And  then  forgot  he  sinned 

To  curse  aloud  when,  through  the  fight, 

He  saw  the  noble  brown 
Plunge  in  his  gallop  to  the  right  — 

"  Great  God !  the  colonel's  down !  " 


The  angry  bullet  pierced  his  side  — 
How  small  a  thing  can  kill ! 

As  if  he  knew  his  master  died, 
The  rearing  horse  stood  still. 


[7] 


I 


The  hand,  all  twisted  in  the  rein, 
Grew  limp  with  death's  chill  damp ; 

The  horse  he  should  not  mount  again 
Could  drag  him  back  to  camp. 

Though  rich  in  honor,  poor  in  gold 

Sir  Robert  Grantley  died, 
And  what  he  had  must  now  be  sold  — 

There's  little  else  beside 

For  widowed  wife  and  orphan  boy 

In  England  far  away; 
It's  bitter  grief  that  kills  the  joy 

Of  victory  to-day. 

And  so  the  drums  rolled,  and  the  band 
A  stirring  march  has  played ; 

And  now  the  "  Fortieth  "  all  stand 
As  though  on  dress  parade, 

Until  across  the  open  space 
They  lead,  with  kindly  force, 

Into  his  old,  accustomed  place, 
Sir  Robert  Grantley's  horse. 

He  does  not  seem  to  feel  at  ease, 

He  lifts  his  head  and  ear, 
As  if  to  ask,  "  Why,  if  you  please, 

Is  not  Sir  Robert  here?  " 


[8] 


And  then,  as  though  the  voice  he  knew 

Had  whispered  a  command, 
He  quiets,  as  he  used  to  do 

In  good  Sir  Robert's  hand. 

There's  not  a  speck  upon  the  coat 
The  trappings  hang  about, 

Save  one  dark  spot  the  soldiers  note. 
Yet  would  not  have  washed  out. 

For  every  man  who  did  not  know. 
Has  heard  it  where  he  stood  — 

The  spot  that  strangely  dark  doth  show 
Is  brave  Sir  Robert's  blood. 

"  How  much  is  bid?  "  the  seller  cries ; 

"  A  hundred  pounds  I'll  take 
To  start  the  horse  that  some  one  buys 

For  Grantley's  widow's  sake !  " 

"  Two  himdred!  "  is  a  captain's  shout ; 

It  is  a  bid  indeed. 
Worthy  the  man  who  called  it  out. 

Worthy  the  noble  steed. 

"  Two  hundred  ten!    the  Major  cries. 

"  Two  hundred  thirty!  "  Then 
By  twenties  on,  the  bids  still  rise 

And  reach  "  Three  hundred  ten!  " 


6-  f, 

[9] 


"  '  Three  hundred  twenty  '  do  you  saj^  ? 

A  *  thirty  '?    Are  you  done? 
You  know  you're  buying  here  to-day 

For  Grantley's  wife  and  son !  " 

Then  the  Lieutenant-Colonel  cries 

"  Three  hundred  fifty!  "  when 
A  common  soldier  meet  his  eyes 

As,  from  among  the  men, 

He  steps,  with  hand  raised  to  his  head 

And  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And,  with  a  ringing  voice,  is  said, 
We  give  four  'under'd  pound!  " 

Then  sounds  the  "Going!  —  going!  —  gone!** 

The  horse  is  led  amid 
The  ranks ;  among  the  others  none 

Will  raise  the  privates'  bid. 

The  band  plays  loud,  as  play  it  ought, 

The  officers,  perforce. 
Have  cheered  the  soldiers  who  have  bought 

Their  loved  commander's  horse. 

For,  from  his  scanty  store,  each  one 

Has  brought  his  share  to  pay 
The  sum  that,  counted  up,  has  done 

To  take  the  prize  to-day. 


[10] 


The  drums  roll  loud,  the  bugles  shout, 
A  stirring  march  is  played 

Each  time  the  "  Fortieth  "  turn  out. 
At  home,  on  dress  parade. 

And  when  he  hears  the  bugle-call. 
There  marches,  as  of  course, 

In  his  old  place,  among  them  all. 
Sir  Robert  Grantley's  horse. 


[11] 


SONG  FOR  A  JUNE  BABY 


Do  you  hear  the  elf-bells  ringing 

When  you  look  so  far  away? 
Can  you  hear  the  fairies  singing 

Songs  they  sang  some  earlier  day? 

What  star  shone  to  guide  you  hither 
When  you  came  at  love's  command  ? 

Do  you  wonder  "whence  and  whither"? 
Little  guest  from  Summerland. 

June  gave  you  her  gift  of  roses, 

Smiling  fields,  and  sunny  skies ; 
And  each  waking  morn  discloses 

Some  new  wonder  to  your  eyes. 

Springs  shall  come,  and  hopes  will  thrill  you; 

Autumns  sad  must  have  their  part ; 
But  no  Winter's  cold  can  chill  you  — 

Born  with  Summer  in  your  heart. 


[12] 


TO 


'TwAS  at  a  ball.  In  vain  I  tried 
To  feel  less  like  a  social  martyr, 

When,  lying  on  the  floor,  I  spied 
A  thing  of  yellow  silk,  a  — ! 

I  put  a  dash  there,  for  'tis  said 
To  write  it  plainly  out  amiss  is ; 

Yet  England's  motto  may  be  read 
Upon  just  such  a  thing  as  this  is. 

I  stooped,  and  hid  it  in  my  hand, 

And  wondered  who  might  be  the  loser. 

She  could  not  ask  me  for  the  band ! 

How  such  a  question  would  confuse  her! 

Returning  with  it  to  my  place, 

I  wondered  if  my  cheek  were  flushing ; 

In  turn  I  scanned  each  lovely  face. 
Until  I  saw  how  you  were  blushing ! 

My  own  perception  I  had  wronged  — 
To  think  that  I  would  not  have  known 

To  whom  this  dainty  band  belonged ; 
No  one  but  you  could  be  the  owner. 

So  thus  I  send  it  back  to  you. 

Around  this  bunch  of  blushing  roses ! 

One  found  it  whom  you  never  knew ; 
Whose  name  no  hint  of  mine  discloses. 

[13] 


I  would  not  have  you  guess  'twas  I, 

Tor  that  might  put  constraint  upon  you. 

Perhaps  you'll  know  me  by-and-by ; 

Perhaps  you'll  love  me !    When  I've  won  you 

I'll  whisper  that  'twas  I  who  found 
This  clinging  silken  band  of  yellow. 

We're  strangers,  still  I  will  be  bound, 
You,  and  no  other,  have  its  fellow ! 

And  now  may  my  respect  for  you 

Plead  pardon  for  these  rhyming  fancies ; 

For  never  motto  was  more  true 

Than  "  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense  "  is  I 


I 


[U] 


/ 

MY  FRIEND 


He  was  my  friend.    He  understood 
All  the  vagaries  of  my  mood. 
Say  I  was  joyous,  he  was  gay; 
If  sad,  he  felt  the  selfsame  way. 
He  held,  with  trusty  commonsense, 
All  that  I  told,  in  confidence. 
He  died.    And  now  I  look  around. 
But  such  a  friend  is  seldom  found. 
I  miss  his  kindly  presence,  yet 
A  dog  like  that  is  hard  to  get ! 


[15] 


ALFALFA 


Plow  the  furrow  wide  and  deep, 
Run  it  true  and  turn  it  fair. 

Far  across  the  sloping  sweep, 

As  the  loam  rolls  from  the  share, 

Polishing  the  mold-board  bright 

Till  it  glistens  in  the  light. 

Follow  quickly  with  the  harrow; 

Crush  the  clods,  and  fine  the  soil. 
While  the  unturned  strip  grows  narrow 

As  the  sweating  horses  toil. 
Harrow  quickly,  lest  it  harden ; 
Fine  the  soil  as  for  a  garden. 

Sow  the  seed,  and  let  it  slumber 

Warmed  by  sun  and  blessed  by  rain. 

Till  the  days,  in  stated  number. 
Waken  it  to  life  again. 

Then  unfolds  before  our  eyes 

One  of  nature's  mysteries. 

On  the  slope  where  first  was  showing 
Just  a  shimmering  haze  of  green. 

Day  by  day  the  shoots  are  growing 
Till  no  sign  of  soil  is  seen ; 

And  the  beauty  is  revealed 

Of  a  June  alfalfa  field. 


[16] 


Thicker  grown  than  meadow  grasses, 
Firm  and  fixed  it  seems  to  be, 

But  when  morning's  swift  wind  passes, 
It's  a  restless,  moving  sea. 

Wave  on  wave  its  fellow  follows 

Toward  the  upland  from  the  hollows. 

When  the  keen  knives  cut  it  down 
Hope  of  further  yield  seems  vain 

From  a  spot  so  bare  and  brown, — 
Then  it  greens  and  grows  again. 

Thrice  and  four  times  thus  it  keeps 

Its  first  promise  ere  it  sleeps. 


[17] 


.   "  JOE'S  ANNIE  " 


There's  a  cottage  half  in  shadow 
Of  a  great  horse-chestnut  tree, 

Where  the  road  runs  from  the  meadow 
To  the  Welstead  Colliery. 

Where  an  evening  lamp  is  burning, 
And  has  burned  a  year,  they  say. 

That  "  J oe's  Annie,"  on  returning. 
May  have  light  to  find  her  way. 

Joe  can't  tell  you  what  bereft  him 
Of  his  simple,  trusting  mind. 

On  the  night  she  went,  and  left  him 
Just  a  scribbled  word  behind; 

But  his  face  is  strained  with  longing 
As  he  tramps  the  mine-town  streets. 

Where  the  nightly  crowd  is  thronging, 
Whispering  to  those  he  meets. 

With  a  voice  that  is  uncanny, 

So  insistent  on  reply. 
Asking,  "  Hav'  you  seen  m'  Annie  — 

Hav'  you  seen  her  go  in'  by?  " 

And  the  lights  are  rude  and  flaring, 
There  is  clatter  from  the  halls. 

As  the  crowd  goes  on,  uncaring 
For  the  one  who  trips,  and  falls ; 

[18] 


For  it's  dance,  and  song,  and  never 
Mind  the  price,  nor  who's  to  pay, 

As  the  glasses  clink,  and  ever 

Sounds  the  laugh  that's  ghastly  gay. 

And  among  the  wanton  many 
Who  give  love  the  laughing  lie, 

May  he  never  see  his  Annie  

Never  see  her  "  goin'  by !  " 


[19] 


SONGS 

A  CRADLE  SONG 
Circa  1640 

RocK-A-BYE,  Babie !    In      tree  toppe 

wynd  is  a-singinge,      birdies  doe  hoppe ; 

And  in  y^  cool  shayde,  in  y^  cradle  doth  lye 
childe  who  doth  drowse  to  y^  soft  luUabye. 

Rock-a-bye,  Babie!    In  y^  tree  toppe 

Y^  wynd  will  keepe  singinge  when  Mother  doth 
stoppe ! 

A  SLUMBER  SONG 
1850 

Hush-a-by !    Rock-a-by !    Lullaby-dear ! 
It's  time  for  the  pillow,  the  sandman  is  here. 
The  night-lamp  is  burning  to  ward  off  alarms 
While  Mother  sways  gently  her  babe  in  her 
arms ; 

His  little  head  lying  so  warm  on  her  breast, 
She  rocks  him,  and  sings  him,  and  loves  him 
to  rest. 

AN  ENAMELED-CRIB  SONG 
1916 

In  his  little  crib  tucked  tight, 
Put  out  the  electric  light. 

[20] 


Does  he  laugh  or  does  he  weep, 

Left  alone  he  goes  to  sleep. 

Modern  mothers  all  agree 

Better  for  a  babe  to  be 

Unrocked,  unsung  to,  just  fixed  right, 

Then  one  kiss,  and  a  "  Good-night !  " 


[21] 


THE  PARTITION  OF  THE  EARTH 


"Die  Theilung  der  Erde."— Schiller,  1789 

"  Now  take  the  world ! "  cried  Jove,  from  his 
high  heaven. 

To  mortals.  "  Take  it  for  your  own  to  be. 
'Tis  thus  for  an  eternal  heirloom  given ; 

As  brothers  share  in  harmony." 

Then  hastened  each  himself  to  pleasure. 

And  young  and  old  bestirred  themselves  as 
well; 

The  Farmer  seized  upon  the  harvest's  treasure ; 
The  Squire's  horn  sounded  through  the  dell; 

The  Merchant  sent  his  warehouse  many  a 
cargo ; 

The  Abbot   chose  the   choicest  vineyard's 
wine ; 

The  King  laid  on  each  bridge  and  street  em- 
bargo 

And  said,  "  The  tenth  of  all  is  mine ! " 

Quite  late,  when  all  at  last  had  been  divided. 
The  Poet  came  from  distant  wandering. 

Alas !  the  choice  was  everywhere  decided, 
An  owner  found  for  everything. 


"  Now  woe  is  me !  Shall  I,  the  rest  befriended, 
Forgotten  go  —  I  thy  most  faithful  son?  " 

Thus  he  complained;  and,  as  his  cry  ascended. 
He  threw  himself  before  Jove's  throne. 

"  If  thou  afar  in  dreamland  have  been  biding," 
Replied  the  god,  "  thou  needst  not  rail  at 
me. 

Where  wert  thou  when  they  were  the  world 
dividing?  " 
"  I  was,"  the  Poet  said,  "  with  thee! 

"  Mine  eyes  upon  thy  shining  face  were  turning ; 

Mine  ears  filled  with  thy  heaven's  harmony; 
Forgive  the  soul  that,  with  thy  glory  burning. 

Entranced,  the  earthly  lost,  through  thee !  " 

'^What's  to  be  done?"  cried  Jove.  "The 
world's  all  given ; 

The  harvest,  chase,  the  mart,  no  longer  mine. 
But  if  thou'lt  come  and  dwell  with  me  in  heaven, 

As  often  as  thou  com'st,  it  shall  be  thine !  " 


[23] 


TO  THE  FARMERS  OF  AMERICA 


Whose  skin  the  wind  has  roughened; 

Whose  hands  are  stained  with  soil; 
Whose  thews  the  task  has  toughened  — 

To  yoUy  the  Lords  of  Toil! 

You  have  plowed,  and  you  have  seeded; 

What  you  reaped,  your  hands  have  sown; 
Hoarding  not  what  others  needed, 

When  you  sold,  it  was  your  own. 

Though  you  never  piled  up  riches. 
Yours  was  what  the  miser  craves ; 

Though  you  delved  in  fields  and  ditches, 
You  have  dug  no  rivals'  graves. 

There  are  those  who  dwell  in  splendor ; 

There  are  those  who  pass  in  pride ; 
Whose  soft  hands  are  white  and  tender, — 

But  for  you,  these  same  had  died. 

While  they  strove  for  wealth  and  pleasure. 

Toward  the  false-light  onward  whirled. 
You  have  held  the  greatest  treasure, 

In  the  storehouse  of  the  world. 

And  your  harvest  ripened  faster 

Than  the  crop  that  greed  has  grown ; 

Now  the  one  who  served  is  master 
And  has  come  into  his  own. 

[24] 


His  the  learning  of  the  sages ; 

His  the  science  of  the  soil; 
His  the  heritage  of  ages ; 

His  the  honor-rank  of  toil. 

And  the  ones  who  did  reject  him, 

Laughing  idly  in  his  face, 
Now  have  learned  they  must  respect  him, 

And  accord  him  worth  and  place. 

And  the  world  that  lately  doubted, 

Comes  at  last  to  understand 
That  the  men  who  can't  be  flouted 

Are  the  ones  who  farm  the  land. 

Whose  skin  the  wind  has  roughened; 

Whose  hands  are  stained  with  soil; 
Whose  thews  the  task  has  toughened  

To  you,  the  Lords  of  Toil! 


[25] 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  WOMAN 


The  little  old  woman  crept  down  the  dark 
street, 

Crept  down  to  the  street  where  the  lights 
were  gay ; 

The  journey  was  long  for  the  weary  feet, 

So  she  stopped  for  a  moment  on  Broadway. 

She  saw  the  throng  of  the  theatre  crowd 
From  taxi,  sedan,  and  from  limousine; 

The  pretty  young  girl,  and  the  matron  proud, 
The  jewels,  and  the  furs,  and  the  silken  sheen. 

And  the  little  old  woman  said,  said  she: 

"  Shure  an'  those  are  not  for  the  likes  o'  me !  " 

The  little  old  woman  went  on  to  where 
A  window  was  blooming,  a  dream  of  June ; 

She  saw  how  a  rose  of  Killarney  there 
Was  lying  alone,  a  flowering  tune. 

She  prest  up  close  to  the  barrier  glass 

And  half  way  reached  with  her  old,  worn 
hand, 

But  the  guardian  pane  would  not  let  her  pass 

Into  that  blossoming  wonderland. 
And  the  little  old  woman  sighed,  sighed  she : 
"  Shure  an'  that  is  not  for  the  likes  o'  me !  " 

The  little  old  woman  passed  over  the  way. 
She  heard  the  clang  of  the  ambulance  bell, 


[26] 


And  whispering  voices  that  seemed  to  say 
How  one  had  been  struck  by  a  wheel,  and  fell. 

Then  she  rode  along  on  the  tires  of  air ; 

Now  the  room  is  still,  and  the  nurse  is  kind ; 

The  roses  are  nodding  a  greeting  there. 

And  the  sun  shines  in  through  the  slatted 
blind. 

And  the  little  old  woman  smiles,  smiles  she : 
"  Sure  an'  this  is  grand  for  the  likes  o'  me ! " 


[27] 


BERRY  TIME 


It  is  in  the  merry  time  — 
Summer-time  and  berry  time. 
Two  hands  fill  the  pail,  and  linger 
As  a  finger  touches  finger, 
As  the  fairer  cheek,  a-blush, 
Answers  now  his  deeper  flush. 
Summer-time  and  berry  time ; 
Such  a  joyous,  merry  time ! 

As  they  homeward  walk  along, 
Walk  along  and  talk  along, 
She,  with  downcast  eyes,  is  paying 
Happy  heed  to  what  he's  saying. 
Two  hands  swinging,  bold  and  free. 
Two  that  must  imprisoned  be. 
As  they  slowly  walk  along  — 
Walk  along  and  talk  along. 

Ah !  it  is  a  merry  time  — 
Summer-time  and  berry  time. 
Just  before  the  two  have  parted 
At  the  white  gate  where  they  started. 
From  his  lips  the  berry  stain 
Brings  the  red  to  hers  again. 
Summer-time  and  berry  time. 
Such  a  happy,  merry  time. 


[28] 


/ 

SAPPHO 


Supposed  to  have  been  suggested  by  a  statue 

Thus,  on  Leucadia's  brink,  was  Sappho  placed. 
Her   fair,  white   arms   and   fairer,  whiter 
breast. 

Freed  from  the  garment  fallen  to  the  waist. 
Showed  purely  thus;  so  one  small  hand  was 
prest 

Upon  the  swelling  bosom ;  thus  her  eyes, 

Filled  with  despair  where  love  had  lately 
shone. 

Turned  sadly  toward  the  sympathetic  skies. 
Thus  Sappho  came  alone. 

And  even  thus  her  tiny,  sandaled  feet 

Touched  lightly  on  the  headland's  dizzy 
height ; 

The  lovely  lips  smiled  thus,  so  sadly  sweet ; 

The  trembling  limbs  were  eager  to  take  flight ; 
Thus,  as  the  robe  did  further  from  her  slip. 

Was  she,  whom  thou  hast  made  to  live  in 
stone. 

Beheld  by  those  who  sailed  the  passing  ship. 
Thus  Sappho  stood  alone. 

'Twas  thus  she  paused ;  the  waters  smiled  below 

A  welcome  to  the  one  who  longed  for  rest. 
No  more  the  joys  of  Lesbos  should  she  know. 


[29] 


Where  love,  now  false  to  her,  was  once  con- 
fest. 

The  thought  is  madness.    Memory,  which  calls, 

Is  powerless  now  to  hold,  since  love  is  gone. 
Like  a  white  cloud  from  off  the  cliff  she  falls. 
Thus  Sappho  died  alone. 


[30] 


THE  CROSS  ROAD 


The  journey's  far  to  reach  a  star, 

But  worth  while  when  you've  won  it ; 
The  best  of  earth  is  little  worth 

If  one  must  rest  upon  it. 
And,  after  all,  to  risk  a  fall 

Is  better  than  to  fear  it, 
For  we  prize  most  what  has  the  cost 

Of  effort  to  endear  it. 
"  Ad  astra  "  is  the  sign  to  show 
The  traveler  the  way  to  go. 

Now  Heaven's  way  seems  long  to-day. 

And  side  paths  are  alluring; 
With  song  and  smile  us  to  beguile 

From  what  we  are  enduring. 
But  lest  we  trip  and  make  a  slip, 

We'll  heed  how  we  begin  it. 
For  one  can  ride  to  Hell  inside 

Of  just  about  a  minute! 
And  "  Facilis  descensus  "  is 
A  danger  sign  we  should  not  miss. 


[31] 


EN  ROUTE 


I'll  sing  you  a  song  of  love,  my  lass, 

As  the  train  goes  rushing  on ; 
The  sun  is  low  on  the  hills  we  pass 

For  the  day  is  almost  done. 
I'm  happy  to  reckon  just  one  day  less 

As  that  cuts  the  time  in  two  — 
For  a  couple  of  days  are  long,  my  Bess, 

To  weary  away  from  you. 

I'll  sing  you  a  song  of  the  heart,  my  dear, 

Of  the  heart  that  is  fain  for  you. 
That  leaps  with  joy  as  the  time  draws  near. 

With  a  beat  that  is  strong  and  true ; 
And  all  it  is  saying  is  "  Bess,  my  Bess !  " 

The  dearest  of  names  I  know. 
As  I  ride  along  in  the  fast  express 

That  never  seemed  half  so  slow ! 


[32] 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING 


When  the  sun  is  sinking  low. 

When  the  West  is  all  aglow, 
And  the  stars  are  ready  out  to  peep ; 

When  the  wind's  ahush,  and  still 

All  the  sounds  the  day  hours  fill  — 
Then  it's  time  for  birds  and  babes  to  go  to  sleep  ! 

When  the  sun  is  rising  bright ; 

When  the  East  is  all  alight. 
And  the  happy  day  is  just  about  to  break; 

When  the  breezes  dance  along. 

And  the  birds  begin  their  song  — 
Then  it's  time  for  little  babies,  too,  to  wake ! 


[33] 


MEMORY 


The  crowded  street  I  walk  along 
At  noontime  of  the  busy  day ; 

Alone,  unnoticed  in  the  throng, 
I  take  my  way. 

Of  all  the  passing  ones  who  go 
Their  ways,  I  heed  not  one ; 

They're  naught  to  me,  I  only  know 
That  she  is  gone. 

Then  in  my  quiet  room,  at  night, 
I  half  dream  in  my  easy  chair. 

With  eyes  closed  to  the  shaded  light  — 
And  she  comes  there. 

Comes  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower; 

And  all  we  knew  of  joy  and  pain 
Together,  in  that  silent  hour 

I  live  again. 


[34] 


EIGHTY 


Just  lead  me  once  more  to  the  gate,  boy; 

Come,  lend  me  the  strength  of  your  arm; 
The  days  have  grown  shorter  of  late,  boy, 

But  the  sun  is  still  pleasant  and  warm. 

I  want  to  look  over  the  cattle; 

To  see  the  new  mare  in  her  stall ; 
To  hear  the  old  pump's  noisy  rattle  — 

I'd  like  one  more  sight  of  it  all. 

The  farm's  changed  since  I  was  a  lad,  boy ; 

New  ways  and  queer  notions  galore ; 
At  first  it  was  strange,  but  I'm  glad,  boy. 

That  the  old  way's  not  ours  any  more. 

There's  another  new  silo !    How  many 

Are  needed  to  keep  in  the  game? 
Well,  of  all  the  old  things  hardly  any 

But  the  sky  and  the  hills  are  the  same ! 

That's  a  fine  cow !    A  "  thirty-two  pounder  "  ? 

A  daughter  of  Aaggie,  you  say? 
I  saved  her  grandam  when  we  found  her 

Barbwired  in  the  pasture  that  day. 

And  she  was  Nell  Pietertje's  daughter, 

Whose  "  twenty  pounds  "  then  wasn't  bad ; 

I  remember  when  you  and  I  bought  her, 
The  first  pure-bred  Holstein  we  had. 

[35] 


So  that's  the  new  mare !    Well,  I  guess,  boy, 
You  made  no  mistake  there,  of  course. 

She'll  do  it  in  thirty  or  less,  boy. 
Or  I  am  no  judge  of  a  horse. 

"  In  twenty !  "    Let's  move  on  a  bit,  now. 

That's  a  great  bull  you've  there  in  the  stall ; 
The  young  things  are  looking  quite  fit  now. 

Do  you  think  you  will  show  'em  this  fall? 

I  guess  I  will  have  to  go  back,  boy  — 
"  Boy !  " —  and  you're  most  fifty-five  [ 

I'm  on  the  home-stretch  of  the  tr^ck,  boy, 
While  you're  just  beginning  to  drive. 

Well,  keep  a  tight  rein  on  your  luck,  boy ; 

Drive  free,  and  the  pace  will  not  tire ; 
Like  me  —  why  I'm  keeping  up  pluck,  boy. 

For  I'm  only  a  length  from  the  wire ! 

What's  that?    Why  you  seem  to  feel  sorry 
That  I  think  the  end  is  in  sight ; 

Well,  I  guess  that  you  don't  need  worry 
When  I  know  that  everything's  right ! 

Why,  there  is  no  call  to  be  sad,  boy ; 

Just  look  at  the  thing  straight  and  fair ; 
Now's  the  time  for  me  to  be  glad,  boy ; 

It's  great  to  have  lived  —  and  lived  square ! 


[36] 


MY  HOPE 

What  lies  beyond  the  farthest  hill 
When  slowly  sinks  the  final  sun? 

What  hope  shall  linger  with  me  still 
When  those  last  moments  run? 

I  know  not  where  my  soul  shall  go, 
Nor  what  the  spirit-quest  may  be, 

But  this  will  be  my  hope  —  to  know 
That  you  may  go  with  me. 


[37] 


THE  MODEL 


She  gave  the  world  her  loveliness, 

She  gave  it  of  her  grace; 
Through  her  the  artist  could  express 

The  charm  of  form  and  face. 

And  now  she  lives  in  chiseled  stone ; 

On  many  a  canvas  rare ; 
For  though  her  breathing  self  is  gone, 

Her  beauty  still  is  there. 

The  sculptor's  immortality. 
The  painter's  lasting  fame, 

Grow  brighter  as  the  years  pass  by  — 
But  no  one  knows  her  name. 


[as] 


LULLABY 


Mothers  sing  it,  soft  and  low, 
As  'twas  sung  long  years  ago, 
With  a  smile,  and  with  a  sigh, 
Crooning,  "  Lul-lul-luUaby !  " 

In  the  hut,  when  want  and  care 
Wait  beside  the  mother  there, 
She  would  soothe  the  wistful  cry 
With  her  "  Lul-lul-luUaby !  " 

In  the  home  where  love  is  young. 
Softly  to  the  babe  is  sung. 
As  the  rose-light  leaves  the  sky. 
That  low  "  Lul-lul-luUaby !  " 

In  the  mother-heart,  though  years 
From  her  eyes  have  dried  the  tears. 
Sings,  as  evening's  hour  draws  nigh. 
Still  a  "  Lul-lul-luUaby !  " 


[39] 


HER  GARDEN 

This  was  her  dearest  walk  last  year.  Her 
hands 

Set  all  the  tiny  plants,  and  tenderly 
Pressed  firm  the  unfamiliar  soil;  and  she 
It  was  who  watered  them  at  evening  time. 
She  loved  them ;  and  I  too,  because  of  her. 
And  now  another  June  has  come,  while  I 
Am  walking  in  the  shadow,  sad,  alone. 
Yet  when  I  reach  the  rose-path  that  was  hers. 
And  breathe  the  fragrancy  of  bud  and  bloom, 
She  stands  beside;  the  murmur  of  the  leaves, 
The  well  remembered  rustle  of  her  gown. 
And  low  her  whisper  comes,  "  My  dear !  My 
dear ! " 

This  is  her  garden.    Only  she  and  I  — 
But  always  we  —  may  walk  its  hallowed  ways ; 
And  all  the  thoughts  she  planted  in  my  heart. 
Sunned  with  her  smile,  and  chastened  with  her 
tears. 

Again  have  blossomed  —  love's  perennials. 


[40] 


THE  NEUTRAL 


There  was  a  fine  young  Irishman, 

Well  known  as  a  high  liver, 
Who  dwelt  in  Castle  Ballygan 

Hard  by  the  Shannon  River. 

He  spent  his  days  with  horse  and  hounds, 
Or  shooting  some  good  cover ; 

Would  play  all  night  for  twenty  pounds, 
And  was  a  famous  lover. 

Until,  one  day,  he  found  that  he 
From  all  his  wealth  had  parted. 

And,  save  his  clothes,  had  come  to  be 
As  bare  as  when  he  started. 

His  creditors  swooped  down  in  pairs 
And  brought  the  place  up  standing, 

With  a  couple  of  mortgagees  downstairs 
And  a  bailiff  on  each  landing. 

"  Well  now,"  said  he,  "  'tis  time  for  me 
To  leave,  while  none's  the  wiser !  " 

So  he  sought  a  sub-lieutenancy 
In  the  army  of  the  Kaiser. 

For  forty  years  he  served,  and  we 
May  know  what  progress  made  he. 

When  in  that  time  he  came  to  be 
"  General  Baron  von  Grady !  " 

[41] 


He  never  saw  a  real  war, 

For  other  nations  fought  'em, 
Yet  had  won  medal,  cross  and  star 

At  manoeuvers  in  the  autumn. 

Still  had  war  come,  by  any  chance. 

The  great  machine,  perfected, 
Had  made  the  Kaiser  "  King  of  France  " — 

Or  at  least  'twas  so  suspected ! 

He  sat,  one  evening,  in  his  tent. 

Well  tired  with  mimic  slaying ; 
The  band  of  some  near  regiment 

On  the  parade  was  playing. 

When  through  the   strains   of  "  Wacht  am 
Rhein  " 

And  "  Deutschland  "  there  came  stealing, 
"  Come  Back  to  Erin,"  low  and  fine. 
With  melody  appealing. 

"  Begad  I "  said  he,  "  I'm  tired,  I  fear. 

Of  sound  of  sword  and  cannon, 
I  know  I'd  far  prefer  to  hear 

The  lapping  of  the  Shannon !  " 

Next  day  he  did  what  evening  taught  — 

Sent  in  his  resignation, 
And  when  the  acceptance  came,  it  brought 

Another  decoration! 


[42] 


Then  home  to  Ireland  straight  he  ran. 

And  landed  on  a  Sunday, 
To  find  that  Castle  Ballygan 

Was  up  for  sale  on  Monday. 

The  ancestral  acres  back  he  bought  — 
(There  were  some  sixty  of  'em). 

And  two  retainers  next  he  sought, 
With  Michael  Dwyer  above  'em. 

Then  chambermaid  and  serving  man 
The  tarnished  trimmings  burnished. 

And  soon  was  Castle  Ballygan 
(Ten  rooms  and  attic)  furnished. 

There,  in  the  evening  of  his  life, 
His  warrior-soul  grew  tender. 

That  ne'er  to  enemy  or  wife 
Had  faltered,  "  I  surrender !  " 

When,  bang !  a  war  was  brought  about 
'Twixt  Britain  and  the  Kaiser, 

And  fearful  fights  were  fiercely  fought 
On  land,  in  sea,  by  sky,  sir ! 

Our  General  was  sore  perplexed ; 

He  felt  the  Kaiser  couldn't 
Be  beaten,  yet  was  sadly  vexed 

If  he  won  when  he  shouldn't  I 

[43] 


"  God  knows  I  scorn  an  Englishman, 
At  least  enough  to  spite  him, 

But,  damme !  if  I  ever  can 

Be  really  brought  to  fight  him! 

"  And  every  German  is  a  friend 
With  whom  I  have  been  banded ; 

Sure  I  can't  wish  to  make  an  end 
Of  those  I  late  commanded ! 

"  While  fighting  me  a  man  may  be 

A  foe  like  any  other, 
But  when  he's  sorely  wounded  he 

Is  just  a  soldier's  brother!" 

And  so  the  General  each  month  spends. 
Though  slender  still  his  purse  is, 

A  sum  that  comfortably  sends 
Equipment  for  two  nurses. 

One  serving  where  "  Die  Wacht  am  Rhe 

Inspires  the  military. 
The  other  on  the  battle-line 

Where  they  sing  "  Tipperary." 

It  matters  little,  never  fear. 

What  song  the  lads  have  chanted, 

The  heart  of  God  draws  very  near 
Where  the  Red  Cross  is  planted. 


[44] 


There  is  a  fine  old  Irishman, 

A  quiet,  noble  liver, 
Who  dwells  in  Castle  Ballygan, 

Hard  by  the  Shannon  River. 


[45] 


A  SPRING  DREAM 


51 


When  the  first  plow  strikes  the  furrow 

As  the  day  creeps  down  the  hill ; 
When  the  rabbit  leaves  the  burrow 

And  the  night-owPs  cry  is  still; 
When  the  pear-tree's  bloom  is  falling 

And  the  bees  buzz  from  the  hive ; 
When  the  voice  of  Spring  is  calling, 

Then  it's  good  to  be  alive  I 

^Tis  the  hopeful  time  of  farming, 

With  the  season  well  begun; 
Soon  the  planted  fields  lie  warming 

In  the  promise  of  the  sun ; 
Then  the  tender  corn  comes  peeping 

Where  you  ran  the  long,  straight  rows 
To  the  slope  where,  from  its  sleeping 

Wakened,  the  alfalfa  grows. 

Next  you  see  the  haymow  treasure 

Up  its  rich,  sweet  scented  store; 
See  the  silos  take  their  measure 

Till  they  can't  hold  any  more; 
Hear  the  stabled  milch-cows  lowing ; 

Watch  the  pretty  young  things  thrive  — 
And  your  Spring  dream  leaves  you  knowing 

That  it's  good  to  be  alive! 


[46] 


THE  POET'S  STAR 


A  STAR  shone  out  upon  the  night 

And  sent  its  ray  afar ; 
The  poet  turned  him  toward  the  light 

To  find  his  guiding  star. 

Scarce  was  he  called  to  heights  unknown, 

When  this  thing  came  about: 
The  power-house  shut  the  current  down  — 

The  poet's  star  went  out ! 


[47] 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 


'TwAs  in  that  strange  and  neutral  land  that  lies 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  when  the  soul  of  man 

Is,  for  a  moment,  not  of  earth,  I  saw 

And  lived  the  things  that  I  shall  set  down  here. 

Now  those  who  will  may  call  it  but  a  dream, 

A  fevered  phantasy  of  restless  mind. 

But  some,  perchance,  may  read  it  otherwise. 

I,  for  myself,  have  naught  to  say  of  it. 

For  some  things  bear  not  reason,  only  faith, 

And  cannot  be  explained,  or  set  at  rest 

By  any  subtle  argument  of  mind. 

I  only  know  that  it  was  real  to  me. 

Dying  I  lay !    I  who  had  lived,  and  breathed, 
And  laughed,  and  loved ;  and  all  so  easily. 
Fixed  was  my  frame,  as  though  already  dead. 
Bound  hand  and  foot  by  some  strange  power- 
lessness ; 

Unconscious  —  so  the  watchers  said  —  but  still 
I  heard  and  saw,  and  knew  the  things  that 
passed 

About  me ;  and  I  felt  that  then  my  soul. 
Which  for  so  long  had  tired  of  worldly  strife. 
Was  seeking  to  escape  the  mortal.  Pain 
Was  no  longer  with  me,  for  a  numbness  crept 
Upon  my  fettered  limbs ;  the  heart's  light  beat 
Was  softly  slower  as  the  breath  grew  faint. 
No  fear  was  on  me,  and  no  dread  of  what 

[48] 


The  unknown  held  in  keeping,  for  at  rest 
The  mind  was  waiting  for  the  soul's  release, 
For  death  is  easy,  living  'tis  that's  hard ! 

And  then  I  heard  a  voice,  that  cried  "  Come 
forth!" 

Straightway  I  stood  unnoticed  there  among 
All  those  who  gathered  at  the  couch  whereon 
Was  lying  that  which  they  had  known  for  me ; 
That  should  be  wept  that  day;  the  morrow 
mourned ; 

The  third  day  laid  away ;  and  then  —  forgot? 

Then  soon  they  passed  out  from  the  dead  man's 
room, 

And  left  me  there  with  it.  How  strange  it  was. 
Thus  to  regard  with  curiosity 

What,  for  so  many  years,  had  seemed  myself  

That  dull,  cold,  waxen  thing,  that  senseless 
shape. 

On  which  corruption  even  then  had  laid 
A  shadow. 

Then,  as  thus  I  thought,  I  saw 
How  there,  on  either  side,  a  figure  stood. 
Such  as  I,  surely,  had  not  seen  before. 

And  she  upon  the  right  was  wondrous  fair. 
Of  gentle  presence,  with  her  slender  form 
Robed  in  the  changing  colors  of  the  dawn 
Made  stable ;  and  all  garnitured  with  gems. 

[49] 


Her  shining  hair,  crowned  with  the  sunlight,  fell 

A  shower  of  golden  gleams  from  head  to  waist. 

And  from  her  very  being  seemed  to  glow 

A  radiance  that  was  a  part  of  her ; 

While  on  her  face,  turned  full  to  mine,  there  was 

A  look  of  tender  gladness,  such  as  I, 

Who  truly  have  known  little  of  such  looks, 

Had  rarely  seen,  save  in  the  lovely  eyes 

Of  one  who  is  no  more  of  earth  —  of  her 

Whose  going  hence  had  made  me  long  to  go. 

But  she  upon  the  left  was  sorrowful. 
And  very  pale,  a  figure  tall  and  gaunt ; 
A  hungry  shape,  gowned  all  in  sombre  black. 
Sad,  rusty  garments,  tattered  here  and  there. 
And  patched  with  many  a  piece.    The  dusty 
feet. 

Toil  worn  and  bruised,  were  sandaled  unalike ; 
The  eyes  were  sunken ;  hollow  were  the  cheeks. 
And  on  the  brow  were  lined  the  memories 
Of  troubled  thoughts. 

So,  silently,  they  stood  — 
Those  strange,  contrasted  watchers  by  the  dead. 
Then  to  the  fair  one  on  the  right,  I  cried, 
"  Farewell,  O  Life ! And  to  the  other  said. 
Death,  I  am  ready.    Lead  —  I  follow  thee  I  " 

And  smiled  the  black-robed  figure  on  the  left, 
A  smile  of  such  an  untold  weariness. 

[60] 


"  0  soul,  hast  thou  still  kept  the  blinded  eyes 
Of  earth?    Look  on  these  sad  and  tattered 
robes  — 

This  poor,  patched  vesture;  on  this  brow  of 
care ; 

These  bruised  feet,  that  toiled  along  the  way 
With  such  uneven  footsteps ;  one  was  shod 
Too  lightly,  and  the  other  weighted  down, 
So  that  they  often  stumbled.    Soul,  look  here 
Upon  this  haggard  countenance,  whereon 
Grief,  pain  and  sorrow ;  strivings,  broken  hopes  ; 
All   these  —  and   more  —  through   sad,  gone 

years  have  lined 
The  chart  that  tells  man's  course,  when  done. 

Behold !  " 

And  here  she  swept  the  garment  from  her  breast. 
And  there,  within  the  shrunken  bosom,  glowed 
A  rosy  shape  of  pure  and  holy  light  — 
"The  Heart  of  Hope,"  she  said,  "The  only 
thing 

Of  mine  that  is  enduring.    I  am  Life !  " 

Then  turned  I  to  the  other.    She  too  smiled  — 
A  smile  like  morning  on  the  hills  of  Spring. 
"  O  soul  immortal,  I  am  Death ! " 

And  straight 
Away  I  turned  from  Life,  and  followed  her. 

And  whither.'^    That,  alas!    I  cannot  tell. 
Here  ends  the  vision  —  or  the  prophecy. 

[51] 


YOU  AND  I 


We  strolled  through  many  a  shady  way 

That  summer  afternoon ; 
We  watched  the  sun,  at  close  of  day, 

Yield  to  the  harvest  moon ; 
We  saw  her  light  along  the  lake 

Shimmer,  and  fade  from  sight. 
Nor  marked  her  going,  for  love's  sake 

Had  made  the  darkness  bright. 
With  none  to  hear  and  none  to  see, 
The  wide  world  held  just  you  and  me. 

We  walk  along  the  busy  street, 

Unmindful  of  the  crowd ; 
We  do  not  see  the  ones  we  meet 

Nor  hear  the  rumble  loud 
Of  passing  train  and  noisy  van, 

Nor  voice  of  any  one. 
For  we,  as  only  lovers  can, 

Believe  ourselves  alone. 
And  so  we  are,  because,  you  see. 
The  wide  world  holds  just  you  and  me! 


[52] 


THE  STAR 


Every  time  a  child  is  born 
'Tween  the  sunset  and  the  morn, 
A  new  star  is  hung  on  high. 
By  the  angels,  in  the  sky, 
That  will  ever  shine  the  same 
Just  to  mark  the  path  he  came ; 
Till  the  hour  when  it  shall  show 
Him  the  way  that  he  shall  go. 
So,  some  pleasant  night,  just  try 
To  find  your  own  star  in  the  sky. 
Millions  shine  for  babies  born 
'Tween  the  sunset  and  the  morn ; 
And  among  them,  fixed  and  true, 
One  is  shining  just  for  you ! 


[63] 


LOVE'S  TRINITY 


I  LOVE  three  women.       Dangerous !  " 

You  say  ?    Well,  that  may  be ; 
Yet  hardly  strange  it  should  be  thus, 

For  each  of  them  loves  me. 

One  has  a  gentle,  pensive  face; 

One  laughing  lips  and  eyes ; 
One  looks  at  me  with  just  a  trace 

Of  wonder  and  surprise. 

One  aids  me  in  my  work  and  thought ; 

One  joins  me  in  my  play; 
While  to  the  third  IVe  always  brought 

The  best  that  in  me  lay. 

I  love  the  most  the  one  I'm  near, 

Yet  to  all  three  am  true ; 
Believe  this,  for,  you  see,  my  dear, 

Each  of  the  three  is  —  You ! 


[54] 


GOOD-NIGHT  :  GOOD-MORNING 


GOOD-NIGHT 

Gentle  sleep,  touch  her  eyes, 

Bid  them  slowly  close, 
Till  the  light  within  them  lies 

Dreamy  in  repose. 
As  her  hand  upon  her  breast 
Soothes  the  loving  heart's  unrest, 
May  her  sleep,  untroubled,  be 
Sweet  for  one  so  sweet  as  she. 

GOOD-MORNING 

Morning-glow,  kiss  her  eyes, 

Bid  them  open  bright 
With  the  light  that  never  dies. 

Only  sleeps  at  night. 
Bring  the  color  to  her  cheek ; 
Curve  her  lips  with  smiles  that  speak. 
May  the  day  that  greets  her  be 
Fair  for  one  so  fair  as  she. 


[65] 


APRIL 


What  Is  the  loveliest  that  April  brings? 

The    laughing    sun    between    the  passing 
showers  ? 

The  morning  brightness  when  the  robin  sings? 

The  longer  day,  to  count  more  happy  hours  ? 
The  earliest  blossoms;  buds  upon  the  tree? 

I  love  them  all ;  yet,  loving  all  the  while. 
The  loveliest  that  April  brings  to  me 

Is  you,  dekr,  and  the  sunshine  of  your  smile. 

For  you  are  April's  child.    Her  moods  are 
yours ; 

The  shadowing  cloud ;  the  dash  of  swift  spent 
rain ; 

The  hopefulness  that  every  chill  endures ; 

The  tender  promise,  and  the  certain  gain ; 
So  variable,  yet  so  always  true; 

Wholly  without  the  dull  monotonies 
Of  natures  that  reveal  us  nothing  new ; 

Your  heart  is  April's,  your's  are  April's  eyes, 

I  did  not  dream  your  coming ;  and  the  day 
Of    long,    gray    dreariness    was  wearied 
through ; 

Until  I  reached  an  unexpected  way  — 

And  there  was  April,  dear,  and  there  were 
you ! 


[56] 


Now  joy  abides  forever  in  my  heart, 

Where  love  a  song  is  singing  all  the  while ; 

And  when  I  come  to  you,  though  long  apart, 
'Tis  springtime  in  the  sunshine  of  your  smile. 


[67] 


THE  JOURNEY 


The  way  leads  through  the  hollow 

Where  the  tangled  marshlands  lie, 
Where  the  haunting  shadows  follow 

And  the  sunlight  seems  to  fly. 
There  is  lack  of  solid  footing, 

There's  deception  in  the  grass 
Falsely  stable  in  its  rooting 

In  the  depth  of  the  morass. 

Soon  the  road  lies  past  the  meadow. 

Straightaway  it  runs  and  clear. 
Where  the  highnoon  has  no  shadow 

And  the  joyous  soul  no  fear; 
Where  the  wanderer  goes  faring 

Blithely  on  his  easy  way, 
Never  fearing,  never  caring. 

That  he  wastes  the  sunny  day. 

Then  the  path  lifts  ever  steeper 

And  the  weary  feet  drag  slow, 
For  the  dark  is  growing  deeper 

And  the  doubt  begins  to  grow. 
As  he  turns  half  hopeless  eyes  on 

Distant  heavens,  starless  still. 
Comes  a  glow  on  the  horizon  — 

It  is  day  beyond  the  hill  [ 


[58] 


MOTHER-THOUGHT 


Dear  little  feet,  the  path  is  steep, 

The  road  winds  long,  the  streams  run  deep ; 

I  cannot  guide  you  far,  the  task 

Is  yours ;  the  most  that  I  can  ask 

Is  power  to  start  your  steps  aright, 

Out  of  the  shadow,  toward  the  light. 

Dear  little  feet,  don't  ever  stray 

From  mother's  love  too  far  away. 

Though  depths  lie  low,  though  heights  be  great. 

Ways  smooth  or  rough,  keep  on !  keep  straight ! 

And  we  shall  never  be  far  apart ; 

Each  cross-path  leads  to  mother's  heart. 


[59] 


THANKSGIVING 


The  year  is  drawing  to  its  close, 

For  it  is  chill  November ; 
About  the  house  the  rude  wind  blows 

Its  challenge  to  December; 
But  hearts  are  light,  and  faces  bright 

With  all  the  j  oy  of  living, 
For  everyone  who  thinks  aright 

Is  happy  on  "  Thanksgiving." 

The  door  is  barred  against  the  cold. 

The  wind's  cry  drowned  in  laughter, 
And  as  one  merry  tale  is  told. 

Another  follows  after. 
For  this  one  day  put  care  away. 

It's  great  to  be  just  living. 
And  each  has  some  good  cause  to  say, 

"  I'm  thankful !  "  this  "  Thanksgiving." 

The  young,  for  their  bright  gift  of  youth ; 

Mid-age  for  all  that's  nearest ; 
The  old,  for  knowledge  of  the  truth 

That  memories  are  dearest. 
No  pride  of  race,  nor  wealth,  nor  place 

Can  make  this  day  worth  living  — 
Contentment  is  the  saving  grace 

That  blesses  a  "  Thanksgiving." 


[60] 


THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD 


They  wandered  through  the  poppy  field, 

Dreaming  the  dream  of  old; 

She  listened  while  the  tale  he  told 
About  love's  magic  shield. 

She  was  so  young,  so  sweetly  fair, 

She  followed  as  he  led; 

Unmarked  the  sun  was  setting  red, 
And  soon  the  dusk  was  there. 

A  star  shone  through  the  darkling  night. 

And  as  its  message  fell. 

He  kissed  her  at  the  edge  of  hell  — 
And  turned  her  to  the  light. 


[61] 


A  SUMMER  WALK 


The  robin  tells  me  I  am  late 

In  getting  on  my  way ; 
The  house-dog  greets  me  at  the  gate 

To  pass  the  time  o'  day. 

No  cloud  at  all  is  on  the  sky 
Where,  in  the  young  forenoon, 

So  dim  a  glance  might  pass  it  by, 
Hangs  faint  the  morning  moon. 

I  whistle  down  the  village  street, 

I  whistle  in  the  lane ; 
The  cat-bird,  from  the  meadow-sweet 

Calls  back  to  me  again. 

Then  through  the  pasture  to  the  hill 
Where  dark  the  cedars  grow. 

On,  up  the  stony  path,  until 
The  town  lies  far  below. 

There  is  no  soul  to  heed  my  talk 

Nor  watch  me  go  along, 
And  so,  upon  my  morning  walk, 

I  sing  aloud  my  song. 

The  oriole  is  swift  on  wing 

As  I  go  passing  near ; 
He  too  has  found  it  joy  to  sing 

With  just  himself  to  hear. 

[62] 


I  care  not  that  no  other  knows 
Of  what  I  sing  to-day  — 

And  comes  a  little  breeze,  and  blows 
My  little  song  away! 

I  whistle  through  the  iSeld  and  lane, 

I  whistle  up  the  street ; 
The  dog  is  at  the  gate  again. 

My  morning  was  complete. 


[63] 


UNISON 


The  fairest  scene  is  doubly  fair 
When  you  are  there, 
And  see  it  too ; 
The  brightest  moon  may  only  rise 

When  to  my  eyes 
She  sends  the  mystic  beams  that  shine, 
Dear  heart  of  mine. 
On  you ; 

And  morning  lacks  its  clearest  light 

From  you  apart ; 
Joy  of  my  day,  dream  of  my  night  — 
Sweetheart ! 


[64] 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  STEEPLE 

Founded  on  Fact 


The  slender,  tapered  spire  was  almost  finished ; 

The  busy  men  had  ceased, 
In  turn,  their  toil,  but  as  their  count  diminished, 

The  danger  was  increased. 

Until  but  two  were  left  upon  the  steeple. 

Who  wrought  at  dizzy  height 
Above  the  street  where  stared  a  crowd  of  people 

In  wonder  at  the  sight. 

One  workman  stood  with  brawny  arms  extended 

Without  the  window  wide. 
And  looked  to  be  almost  in  air  suspended 

Upon  the  steeple's  side. 

The  other,  and  at  first  it  seemed  the  bolder. 

Was  working  overhead. 
With  feet  above  the  former's  steady  shoulder. 

Fastening  the  frame  with  lead. 

With  skilful  hand  he  poured  the  melted  metal 

Where  rod  and  bar  were  set 
Deep  in  the  stone,  that  when  the  spire  should 
settle 

They  might  hold  firmly  yet. 


[65] 


1 


When  by  some  chance  —  God  knows  what  was 
the  matter  — 

He  let  the  lead  o'erflow, 
And  sent  it,  with  an  agonizing  spatter, 

Upon  the  man  below. 

'Tis  death  to  him  if  that  man  makes  a  motion ; 

Yet  who  could  bear  the  shock? 
But  one ;  and  he,  with  more  than  man's  de- 
votion, 

Stands  steady  as  a  rock. 

He  feels  the  scorching  mass  upon  him,  burning 

Its  way  into  the  bone, 
And  not  an  inch  of  space  is  left  for  turning 

Upon  the  sill  of  stone. 

Full  on  his  naked  neck  it  fell ;  and,  clinging, 

It  holds  with  clasp  of  fire ; 
He  dares  not  throw  it  off  for  fear  of  flinging 

His  comrade  from  the  spire; 

Who,  crouching,  creeps  into  the  belfry,  turning 

In  time  to  hold  him  fast. 
Just  as  the  molten  metal,  deeper  burning. 

Has  seared  his  soul  at  last. 

'Tis  over.    And  the  comrade  who,  descending, 

Bore  him  down  from  the  place. 
Unmindful  of  the  wondering  crowd,  is  bending 

Above  the  pallid  face. 

[66] 


Now  lift  him  gently,  tender  hands,  and  bear  him 
Into  the  Bishop's  house. 

The  roof  is  honored ;  dofF  your  hats  who  near 
him  — 
This  hero,  in  a  blouse. 


[67] 


1915  ON  THE  FARM 


No  longer  goes  the  pretty  maid 
"  A  milking,  sir  !  "  at  morn ; 

No  more  a  dozen  men  are  paid 
To  cut  and  bind  the  corn. 

The  scythe  and  sickle  both  are  gone, 
No  flail  for  years  been  seen. 

And  even  barnyard  chores  are  done 
Quite  simply  by  machine. 

A  vacuum  milker  milks  the  cows ; 

The  cream's  not  left  to  rise ; 
A  tractor  draws  a  gang  of  plows 

On  farms  of  any  size. 

The  hens  lay  in  a  patent  nest 
That  gives  each  egg  a  date ; 

And  everything  must  stand  a  test 
For  a  certificate ! 

Poor  Dobbin's  usefulness  is  past, 

His  pace,  too  slow  by  far, 
For  now  the  farmer-folk  ride  fast 

In  their  new  motor-car. 

And  Romance  hides  her  charming  face, 

Regretting  what  has  been  ; 
But  ease  and  comfort  rule  the  place 

That's  run  by  gasolene ! 

[68] 


MAD  SONG 


In  the  lonely  night  I  stand 
With  my  heart  within  my  hand. 
And  I  watch  it  palpitate, 
Watch  it  palpitate  and  pant 
With  the  love  that  came  too  late 
To  undo  the  work  of  fate, 
That  denied  me  all  I  want, 
All  that  life  would  need  to  be 
Fair  as  Paradise  to  me. 

Shall  I  crush  it?    See!  it  moves ! 
Soul,  there  is  a  heart  that  loves ! 
Look  upon  it ;  mark  it  well. 
Soon  it  will  be  cast  away. 
Useless  as  a  tongueless  bell, 
Joyless  as  the  heart  of  Hell. 
Listen  heart,  to  what  I  say  — 
She  is  all  life  needs  to  be 
Fair  as  Paradise  to  me. 

She  has  torn  thee  from  my  breast. 
Laid  thee  in  my  hand  to  rest. 
Heart  that  resteth,  ne'er  again 
Shalt  thou  beat  to  joy  or  grief. 
Thus  I  crush  thee,  might  and  main ! 
There !  'tis  done !    Ah,  God,  what  pain ! 
Yet  the  torture  brings  relief. 
Since  my  love  she  will  not  be, 
Nothing  now  is  pain  to  me ! 

[69] 


JUST  LAUGH 

A  MAN  who  cannot  take  a  joke 
Should  not  permit  himself  to  poke 
Fun  at  his  friends'  own  foibles,  lest 
There  be  a  come-back  to  the  jest. 
And,  honestly,  we  would  lose  half 
The  fun  without  an  answering  laugh. 


[70] 


AWAKE,  AMERICA! 


America  !    The  hour  is  now 

To  guard  the  gates  and  man  the  walls, 
Nor  wait  until  the  war-blasts  blow, 

Until  some  foeman's  gauntlet  falls. 
The  thunder  of  the  guns,  the  cry 
Of  shell  across  a  smoking  sky. 

May  not  for  long  be  held  afar. 
Awake,  America  I 

Arm  for  defense,  not  war. 

America!    Content  and  right 

Bulwark  no  land  against  the  day 
When  greed  and  hate  may  link  with  might 

And  tattered  treaties  bar  no  way. 
Sleep  not  until  it  is  too  late. 
Until  war's  summons  shakes  the  gate. 

Arouse,  and  bid  the  day-dream  cease. 
Awake,  America! 

Arm  for  defense,  and  peace ! 


[71] 


POVERTY 


When  poor,  my  friends  all  came  to  me, 

And  shunned  me  never; 
Their  honest  faces  shone,  and  free 

Their  speech  was,  ever. 

Now  I  am  rich.    And  when  I  need 

More  truth,  less  honey, 
My  friends  pass  by.    I'm  poor  indeed  — 

I've  only  money. 


[72] 


THE  ONE  WOMAN 


There  must  be  one  to  be  loved,  to  be  clung  to ; 
One  to  be  worshipped,  one  to  be  sung  to ; 
One  to  be  held  in  the  eyes,  in  the  heart; 
One  to  be  kept  from  all  others  apart. 

Is  it  because  her  rare  mind  is  the  rarest? 
Is  it  because  her  fair  face  is  the  fairest? 
No,  for  a  hundred  far  wiser  might  be. 
Or  fairer  ten-fold,  and  pass  on,  for  all  me. 

Why  is  the  touch  of  her  hand  like  a  blessing. 
Leaving  me  cold  to  all  others'  caressing? 
Why  do  I  know  that  the  reason  I  write 
My  best,  is  the  wish  to  stand  well  in  her  sight? 

These  are  the  questions  that  poets  have  ever 
Asked  of  themselves  but  have  answered  them 
never. 

Though  each  of  them  knows  that  the  soul  of  his 
song 

Is  the  soul  of  the  woman  who  leads  him  along. 

For  there  must  be  one  to  be  loved,  to  be  clung 
to ; 

One  to  be  worshipped,  one  to  be  sung  to ; 
And  the  song  that  he  loves  is  the  song  that  he 
brings 

To  the  one  whose  heart  beats  to  the  song  that 
he  sings. 

[73] 


SANCTUARY 


When  the  little  limbs  are  weary, 
Creep  to  mother's  arms,  and  rest; 

When  the  little  heart  aches,  dearie. 
Cuddle  down  on  mother's  breast. 

'Tis  a  comfy  place ;  and,  maybe. 

Some  day,  dear,  when  you  are  grown. 

In  your  arms  just  such  a  baby. 
Sleepy-tired,  will  cuddle  down. 


\ 


[74] 


OLD  ST.  PAUL'S,  NEW  YORK, 

At  Fulton  Street 
A  STREET  of  busy  life,  where,  all  the  day. 
The  hurried  thousands  throng;  some  keeping 
pace 

Well  with  the  crowd,  and  those  who  lag  behind. 
And  yet  a  few  who  pass  and  leave  the  rest. 
With  nervous  step,  urged  by  quick  moving 
mind. 

Each  makes  his  way,  on  self  intent,  nor  heeds 
The  scowl,  the  laugh,  the  side-glance  nor  the 
tear. 

The  din  of  wheels,  the  clang  of  chain-swung 
iron. 

The  drumming  of  the  feet  upon  the  walk. 
Mingle  in  constant  dissonance,  through  which 
The  crowd's  dulled  voice  sends  its  low  overtone. 
There,  just  beyond,  a  spot  whose  silences 
Hush  sense  of  all  intruding  sound,  and  where 
The  hours,  struck  on  the  bell,  tell  time  no  more 
For  those  whose  names  are  wearing  from  the 
stones. 

The  sun,  escaped  from  towering  walls,  weaves 
shade 

And  shine  where  still  the  brown  leaves  lie ; 
Where  tree  and  shrub,  held  in  arrested  life. 
Await  the  promised  coming  of  the  spring. 
A  way  of  restlessness :  a  place  of  sleep. 
And  there,  between  the  two,  a  barrier 
Impassable,  save  through  the  waiting  gate. 

[75] 


BETROTHAL 


We  are  standing  now  together  just  outside  the 
garden  gate. 

Shall  we  open  it  and  enter  in,  or  would  you 
rather  wait? 

We  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  sunshine,  there  is 
just  a  breath  of  flowers, 

And  the  laughing  wind  is  calling  from  that  un- 
known land  of  ours. 

I  could  never  pass  the  gate  alone  if  I  wanted  to, 
for,  see, — 

You  are  holding  in  your  little  hand  the  gar- 
den's only  key. 

'Tis  for  you  to  say,  "  Let's  enter !  "  and  it's 
yours  to  whisper,  "  No  !  " 

For  your  voice  can  bid  me  follow,  and  your 
word  can  bid  me  go. 

But  I'm  longing  for  your  answer,  for  it  seems 
to  me,  of  late. 

That  the  only  place  I  yearn  for  is  beyond  the 
garden  gate. 

I  have  never  seen  the  garden  that  I  know  you 

have  not  seen. 
Though  it  may  be  you  have  dreamed,  as  I,  of 

what  it  might  have  been 
If  the  right  one  had  been  waiting  here  to  enter 

in  with  you. 


[76] 


For  one  alone  can't  pass  the  gate  that  opens 

just  for  two. 
But  the  right  one  never  came  to  you,  and  never 

came  to  me 

Till  the  day  I  found  you  waiting,  and  Love 

handed  us  the  key 
That  I  could  not  use  without  you,  and  I 

wouldn't  if  I  could  [ 
And  I  guess  that  I  can  trust  you  to  do  what  I 

wish  you  would  — 
Say  you  know  that  I'm  the  right  one ;  that  you 

do  not  need  to  wait 
Any  longer;  that  for  us  two  you  unlock  the 

garden  gate. 

But  it  may  be  you  are  timid  and  half  fearful  to 
explore 

A  place  that  looks  inviting  but  has  unknown 

things  in  store; 
For,  of  course,  it  is  not  easy  when  one  does  not 

really  know 

How  long  or  short  the  way  may  be  that  one  will 
have  to  go. 

Perhaps  you  think  the  roses  may  not  always  be 
in  bloom ; 

That  the  sun  may  go  behind  a  cloud  and  leave 

the  place  in  gloom ; 
That  the  happy  breeze  that  calls  us  now  may 

sometime  die  away ; 

[77] 


Well,  if  that  is  what  you're  fearing,  why  then 
all  1  have  to  say 

Is  — youM  better  trust  the  key  to  me,  and  Pll 
not  hesitate 

To  put  my  arm  around  you,  and  unlock  the 
garden  gate ! 


[78] 


FIDELIS 


Before  the  inner  palace-gate, 

Where  came  the  King,  in  robes  of  state 

To  visit  the  sweet  Queen,  Fidelis  stood  — 

The  captain  of  her  Guard ;  and  still 

And  silent  he  stood  there,  until 

He  almost  seemed  a  statue  in  his  hood 

Of  steel,  with  shining  armor  bright. 

And  silver  shield,  that  caught  the  light 

To  shatter  it  into  a  shower 

Of  dancing  gleams  that  mocked  the  power 

Of  myriad  lights  which,  in  the  room. 

Half  mastered  evening's  coming  gloom. 

There,  to  the  great  and  outer  hall, 

Came  many  a  soldier  clad  for  war ; 
And  now  and  then  some  general. 

With  honors  won  on  fields  afar. 
Would  pause  to  wonder  how  this  man. 

Fitted  to  lead  some  mighty  host 
Where  battle's  stream  the  strongest  ran. 

Could  hold  so  long  such  humble  post. 
And  one,  who  wondered  most,  once  said, 

"  Why  are  thy  talents  great  thus  lent 
To  such  a  task?  "    With  half  bowed  head 

He  answered  him,  "  I  am  content ! " 

1^0  trumpet  tone  could  call  him  thence ; 
No  voice  of  scorn  might  give  offense ; 

[79] 


For  in  his  breast  stirred  naught  beside 
The  love  that  seemed  too  strong  a  tide 
To  hold  within  that  breast  confined. 
And  yet  he  spoke  not,  for  he  kept 
Locked  in  security  of  mind 
The  silent  thought  that  never  slept. 
And  so  when  others  passed  him  by, 
To  fight  on  field  or  battlement, 
For  all  their  gains  he  had  no  sigh, 
But  only  said,  "  I  am  content ! 

Then  once  she  passed  his  way ;  and  low 
Her  whisper  reached  him,  and  he  knew 

What  he  had  never  guessed  till  now  — 
The  Queen  —  his  Queen  —  could  love 
too. 

Then  smiled  the  world  to  him,  and  then 

The  glory,  honors,  riches,  power. 
Which  seemed  so  much  to  other  men. 

Were  nothing  to  him  from  that  hour. 
For  when,  with  her  great  woman's-heart, 

The  Queen,  from  far  above,  unbent. 
He  knew  that  he  was  set  apart 

To  serve  her ;  and  he  was  content. 

One  day  the  City  rose.    The  King 
With  soldiery  went  forth.  Alone 

Fidelis  stood;  and  many  a  fling 
The  passing  warriors  had  thrown 


[80] 


At  him  who  waited  there  ;  but  still 

He  watched,  and  stirred  not  from  the  spot, 
Nor  bared  his  eager  sword,  until. 

When  blazed  the  battle  fierce  and  hot. 
The  gates  went  down.    Then  from  its  sheath 

The  great  sword  sprang,  with  ring  that 
meant 

A  welcome  to  her  foes.    A  breath 

Smiled  from  his  lips,  "  I  am  content !  " 

Then  at  her  door  he  took  his  place 

And  turned  to  see  his  Queen  within. 
With  light  of  trust  upon  her  face 

That  made  him  eager  to  begin. 
Then  flashed  the  steel ;  and,  one  by  one, 

Those  who  had  gained  the  door  went  down. 
While  from  the  shield  the  light  still  shone, 

Though  brighter,  clearer,  it  had  grown. 
And  when,  in  one  short  pause  of  fray. 

The  Queen  still  closer  to  him  went. 
And  near  him  knelt,  as  though  to  pray, 

Fidelis  whispered,  "  I'm  content !  " 

And  when  the  King  returned,  he  found 
The  Queen  in  safety.    At  her  door 

Fidelis  lay  on  reddened  ground. 

With  broken  sword ;  and  there,  before, 

Those  who  had  sought  to  enter  —  dead. 
The  Queen  was  kneeling  by  his  side 


[81] 


To  pillow  in  her  arms  his  head ; 

And  so  he  rested  till  he  died. 
Nor  King  nor  courtier  heard  the  voice 

That  whispered,  with  its  power  all  spent, 
"  My    queen  —  my    love !    This    was  my 
choice  — 

To  die  for  thee !    I  am  content !  " 

•  •••••• 

And  on  the  marble  of  the  monument 

They  raised  where  they  had  laid  his  urn  to 
rest. 

Was  graven  by  the  sorrowed  Queen's  behest, 
"  FlDELis."    And  beneath,  "  I  am  content'' 


[82] 


OLD  TIMES  AND  NEW 

Long  years  ago,  before  your  day  or  mine, 
When  verse  was  poetry  and  cows  were  kine ; 
When  kirtled  milk-maids  waited  there  to  see 
"  The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea 
When  Mary  went  "  to  call  the  cattle  home," 
And  "  Cusha !  cusha ! "  coaxed  them  not  to 
roam ; 

When  cows  had  simple  names,  both  short  and 
pretty, 

Like  "  Whitefoot,"  "  Lightfoot,"  "  Dairy-lass," 

and  "  Betty  " ; 
When  lads  and  lassies,  'neath  the  winking  stars. 
Whispered  their  love  across  the  pasture  bars; 
A  poet  really  had  some  sort  of  show 
To  shine  in  verse  —  but  that  was  long  ago ! 

To-day  the  lowing  cow  lows  in  her  stall 
And  does  not  wind  her  way  afar  at  all ; 
Stabled  by  day,  and  just  turned  out  at  night, 
She's  better  off  than  having  flies  to  fight ; 
Is  treated  like  a  lady,  not  a  brute ; 
Milked  by  a  college  man  in  a  white  suit. 
Watched  by  another  from  the  station  sent 
To  weigh  her  milk  and  test  its  fat  content. 
She  has  a  name  to  drive  a  poet  insane  — 
"Lieuwkje     Mechthilde     Aaggie  Houwtje 
Wayne !  " 

[83] 


While  "  half  the  herd  "  has  one  that  is  as  bad. 
Like  "  Farmstead  Lass  De  Kol  Satiric  LadJ 

But  if  the  romance  and  the  poetry 
Aren't  now  in  farming  as  they  used  to  be, 
The  modern  husbandman  can  truly  thank 
The  change  for  his  nice  balance  in  the  bank, 
And  on  a  business  basis  runs  the  place 
Instead  of  letting  it  set  him  the  pace. 
His  house  has  running  water  and  steam  heat, 
Electric  light  and  telephone  complete. 
While  better  roads,  that  cut  the  journey  down. 
Have  put  the  farm  a  short  half  hour  from 
town, 

And,  altogether,  he  and  his  good  wife 
Are  really  getting  something  out  of  life. 

Yet,  in  the  winter,  when  the  fire  is  low, 
Sometimes  we  see,  where  red  the  embers  glow, 
The  pretty  milkmaid  tripping  down  the  lane ; 
The  reapers  thrust  their  sickles  through  the 
grain ; 

The  flail,  with  rhythmic  beat,  fall  on  the  floor; 
The  old  mill-wheel  turn,  dripping,  'round  once 
more; 

As,  one  by  one,  the  old-time  pictures  rise. 
When  memory  lays  soft  fingers  on  our  eyes. 
But  as  the  last  sparks  in  the  ashes  fall. 
We  think  of  plumbing,  lights,  steam-heat,  and 
all 

[84] 


The  things  with  which  the    Good  Old  Times  " 
weren't  blest, 

And  "  Good  New  Times  "  then,  somehow,  seem 
the  best ! 


[85] 


DEEP  RIVER 


Violin  Record  by  Maud  Powell 

Softly  from  the  wakened  strings 

Comes  the  low  voice  of  the  river ; 
Sad  the  message  that  it  brings, 

While  your  sweet  lips  droop  and  quiver. 
From  the  depths  where  shadows  lie. 

Hidden  places  without  sun, 
Memories  that  will  not  die 

While  the  river  still  shall  run. 

Now  there  sounds  a  happy  strain 

Lilting  merrily  along. 
And  your  smiles  have  come  again 

With  the  joyousness  of  song. 
Hope  is  what  the  music  sings. 

Laughing  lips  and  shining  eyes. 
Promises  of  longed-for  things. 

Of  the  love  that  never  dies. 

Then  a  wondrous  harmony, 

Chords  that  draw  us  still  more  near ; 
In  my  arms  rest  close  to  me  — 

It  is  sweeter  thus  to  hear. 
Now  our  lips  have  met,  and  cling ; 

Joined  our  kindred  souls  as  one; 
And  our  hearts  love's  song  shall  sing 

While  the  river  still  shall  run. 


[86] 


FOR  ALL  TIME 


So  many  hundred  years  ago  we  met  — 
As  shown  me  in  a  dream  the  other  night, 
When  that  fair  scene  was  opened  to  my  sight  — 
I  do  not  wonder  that  you  should  forget 
Our  meeting  in  the  long-ago ;  and  yet 
I  half  believe  that,  if  you  would,  you  might 
Lure  back  some  memory  from  far  off  flight 
And  read  the  horoscope  that  then  was  set. 
For,  sometimes,  in  the  look  that  you  have  had 
When  I  have  gazed  deep  down  in  your  dear 
eyes. 

To  read  the  eternal  love  that  in  them  lies, 
I  thought  you  did  remember,  and  were  glad 
To  know,  in  spite  of  all  the  change  that  came. 
Our  star  shines  on;  that  love  is  still  the  same. 


[87] 


OLD  SONGS 


(Tableaux  vivant) 
I 

"  COMIN'  THRO'  THE  RYE  " 

The  picture  tells  the  reason  why 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her, 

As  she  was  coming  through  the  rye, 
Hoping  he  would  not  miss  her. 

He  saw,  with  something  like  relief. 
What  made  his  heart  grow  bolder. 

That  both  her  hands  held  fast  the  sheaf 
Of  rye  upon  her  shoulder. 

Because,  you  see,  her  lips  would  be 

Left  thus  quite  undefended. 
Now  do  you  think  she  guessed  that  he 

Would  see,  or  just  pretended? 

Then,  as  the  sheaf  was  tossed  away. 
He  held  her  hands  and  told  her 

The  things  that  lovers  always  say, 
Her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

And  though  with  blush  and  downcast  eye. 
She  warned  him  not  to  do  it. 

He  kissed  her  coming  through  the  rye  — 
And  after  she  came  through  it ! 


[88] 


II 

"  COME  BACK  TO  ERIN  » 

The  greatest  patriots  in  the  world 
The  old  green  isle  supplies, 

And  Erin's  banner  is  unfurled 
Next  every  flag  that  flies. 

When  we  come  here  the  door  is  shut 

Upon  the  way  we  came ; 
We  sing  "  Come  Back  to  Erin !  "  but 

We  stay  here  just  the  same! 

Ill 

"  JUANITA  " 

Its  style  is  old,  this  song  we  sing 
For  memory's  sake  to-night; 

You  might  prefer  some  modern  thing, 
This  may  not  ring  just  right. 

Yet  as  you  hear  the  melody. 

Old  fashioned  as  it  is, 
The  simple  words  that  used  to  be 

Set  to  a  tune  like  this, 

Down  in  your  heart  you  will  confess 
This  truth  at  any  rate  — 

The  song  that  sings  love's  tenderness 
Is  never  out  of  date. 


[89] 


IV 


"  OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME  " 

An  ancient  story,  seems  to  me, 

This  song  is  all  about ; 
The  old  folks  stay  at  home ;  you  see 

The  young  folks  have  gone  out. 

Now,  that's  old  fashioned,  isn't  it? 

To-day  it's  different,  quite; 
No  woman  hugs  the  fire  to  knit. 

No  man's  home  every  night. 

Now  equal  rights  give  to  each  one 

So  many  things  to  do, 
That  growing  lonely,  left  alone, 

The  hearth-fire  goes  out  too ! 


V 

"THE  OLD  OAKEN  BUCKET" 

There  are  no  oaken  buckets  now  — 

And  mighty  little  oak; 
The  old  well-sweep  is  far  too  slow, 

And  so  it  has  "  gone  broke." 


We  pipe  our  water  in  to-day, 

We  have  no  time  to  waste ; 
That  beats  a  well  for  speed  —  but,  say, 

We  somehow  miss  the  taste ! 


[90] 


APRIL'S  LADY 


Shade  and  shine  mark  April's  day ; 

Blows  the  breeze  with  laugh  and  sigh ; 
Soon  the  sun  shall  dry  away 

Every  tear  from  April's  eye. 

April's  lady,  fair  and  sweet, 

Tripping  through  the  meadow  grass, 
Sees  the  daisies  at  her  feet 

Bend  to  touch  them  as  they  pass. 

Symbol-flowers,  that  rarer  be 
Than  the  richest  gardens  hold, 

Petalled  with  sweet  modesty. 
And,  within,  a  heart  of  gold. 


[91] 


HE  AND  I 


He  and  I  were  friends  in  the  old  school-days, 
When  our  hearts  were  young  and  light ; 

And  then  we  went  on  our  several  ways, 
Till  I  saw  him  the  other  night. 

We  passed,  for  a  meeting  was  not  for  us, 
For  the  space  was  wide  between; 

I  was  atop  of  a  Riverside  bus. 
And  he  in  his  limousine. 

The  traffic  had  held  us  beneath  the  glare 

Of  the  lights  on  the  Avenue, 
And  as  we  were  halted  a  moment  there, 

I  saw  that  his  car  held  two. 

A  woman  —  his  wife?  —  was  by  his  side. 
And  haughty  and  cold  seemed  she. 

While  I  was  having  a  heavenly  ride 
With  the  girl  of  my  heart  by  me. 

Those  two  were  looking  just  straight  ahead. 

And  of  life  they  gave  no  sign. 
While  we  were  sitting  "  up  close  "  instead. 

With  her  little  hand  in  mine. 

And  I  wondered  if  he,  with  all  his  style. 
Were  as  happy  and  free  from  care. 

As  I  who  could  own  the  world  for  a  while 
At  the  price  of  a  ten  cent  fare. 

[92] 


TOWARD  EVENING 


To-day  I  see  the  face  of  her, 
The  gentle,  slender  grace  of  her, 

As  first  I  saw  her  years  ago ; 

And  I  shall  ever  see  her  so. 
For  none  can  take  the  place  of  her. 

My  heart  it  is  the  heart  of  her, 

A  living,  loving  part  of  her ; 

Or  sad  or  gay  her  mood  is  mine. 
Yet  all  unconscious  of  design 

The  wondrous  artless  art  of  her. 

Her  breath  it  is  the  breath  of  me. 

The  very  life,  the  death  of  me. 

When  it  shall  languish  once  for  all, 
Its  sigh  shall  be  the  foUow-call 

To  me,  to  the  glad  wraith  of  me. 

My  soul  it  seeks  the  soul  of  her. 

As  years  demand  their  toll  of  her. 

They  bring  the  welcome  hour  more  near 
When,  from  my  limitations  clear, 

I'll  understand  the  whole  of  her. 


[93] 


A  RAINY  DAY 


Love  came  to  my  window  and  tapped  on  the 
pane, 

Saying  "  Let  a  chap  in,  it  is  going  to  rain ! " 
Now  I  was  contented  to  be  alone,  yet 
I  just  couldn't  leave  the  boy  out  in  the  wet. 
And  so  he  came  in ;  and  he  hung  up  his  bow 
And  his  arrows,  and  sat  by  my  side,  don't  you 
know. 

The  rain  was  soon  over,  and  out  came  the  sun. 
And  the  clouds  went  a-sailing  away,  one  by  one. 
Th^n  Love  took  his  bow  and  his  arrows,  but 
sent 

A  sharp  one  to  hurt  me,  as  onward  he  went ; 
And  the  fire  has  gone  out,  and  I'm  lonely  again, 
And  find  myself  wishing  'twere  going  to  rain ! 


« 

[94] 


BABY'S  JOURNEY 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  where  she  went  — 
'Tw^as  in  her  dreams,  you  know ; 

None  but  a  child  is  ever  sent 
Where  sleeping  babies  go. 

We  watch  her  peaceful  slumbering, 

And  every  little  while 
Is  shown  us  that  most  lovely  thing  — 

A  sleeping  baby's  smile. 

How  she  comes  back  no  grown-up  learns. 
Nor  whence  the  path  she  takes ; 

Her  head  upon  the  pillow  turns  — 
The  sleeping  baby  wakes ! 


[95] 


GOOD-NIGHT 


Good-night  !    Though  you  are  far  away 

And  I  alone  am  here, 
Somehow  the  very  words  I  say 

Have  power  to  bring  you  near ; 

And  in  the  quiet  of  the  place 

One  happiness  I  seek  — 
I  close  my  eyes  to  see  your  face, 

And  almost  hear  you  speak. 

Good-night !    I  breathe  a  little  prayer 

Before  I  go  to  sleep. 
That  God  may  hold  you  in  His  care, 

His  Angels  watch  may  keep 

Beside  your  bed;  that  sweet  repose 

Be  yours  till  morning  light ; 
That  happy  dreams  your  eyes  may  close. 

And  waken  them.    Good-night ! 


[96] 


TO  A.  S.  C. 

North  Loup,  Nebraska 

I  THANK  you  for  the  kindly  thought, 
The  handshake  and  the  smile. 

Which  to  the  busy  East  have  brought 
Your  breezy  Western  style. 

Sing  on,  and  never  mind  who  hears, 
The  joy  is  still  your  own; 

What  woodland  warbler  ever  fears 
Because  he  sings  alone? 

Though  us  unyielding  distance  parts. 
These  things  to  both  belong  — 

The  brotherhood  of  kindred  hearts, 
The  fellowship  of  song. 


[97] 


LOVE 


I  LOVE  thee  not  for  days,  nor  years,  nor  time ; , 

For  there  can  be  no  limit  to  the  love 
That  grows  with  every  heart-beat  more  sub- 
lime, 

That  lifts  the  thought  of  one  poor  soul  above 
The  level  of  itself ;  that  sanctifies 

The  task  of  living.  Let  me  take  your  hand 
A  moment  —  so  —  and  look  into  your  eyes. 

I  cannot  speak,  but  you  will  understand. 
For  neither   words   nor  whispers   with  half 
breath 

Can  tell  you  how  your  wondrous  love  has 
blessed ; 

But  by  my  life,  perhaps,  or  by  my  death, 
The  inexpressible  may  be  expressed. 


4 


[98] 


MORNING  SONG 


Arise  !    Arise  !    Have  you  not  heard 

Glad  day's  awakening? 
Now  every  little  baby-bird 

Is  learning  how  to  sing. 

The  morning-breeze,  so  soft  and  clear, 

A  fairy-story  tells. 
And  in  the  garden  you  can  hear 

The  Canterbury  bells. 

The  brook  runs  laughing  down  the  glen ; 

White  clouds  go  sailing  by, 
And  throw  such  dancing  shadows  when 

The  sun  is  in  the  sky; 

The  humming-bird,  on  unseen  wings, 

Seeks  honey  with  the  bee  — 
Come  out  [    There  are  so  many  things 

For  you  to  hear  and  see ! 


[99] 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR 


True  love  lives  but  a  single  day  — 

Yet  what  is  held  within  it ! 
A  year  of  time  each  second's  sway, 

While  sixty  make  its  minute ! 

Love's  year  would  bring  a  world  to  age, 
Ten,  send  a  star  to  slumber ; 

Love's  calendar  has  but  one  page, 
Which  bears  a  single  number. 

Though  this  no  lover  can  gainsay. 
He  need  no  trouble  borrow ; 

Love's  life  is  one  eternal  day, 
With  one  date,  no  to-morrow. 


4 


[100] 


THE  FIRST  LESSON 

It  was  not  I  who  silence  broke 
My  lips  no  word  of  love  let  fall , 

In^'ad't  was  my  heart  that  spoke 
To  yours,  and  told  you  all. 

You  save  me  no  replying  word, 

No  blush  of  cheek  to  show  a  s.gn 
And  yet  I  knew;  the  stillness  heard 

Your  heart  respond  to  mine. 

A  little  while,  and  you  shall  learn 

The  tender  words  that  trus  wxU  teach, 

And,  with  fond  confidence,  will  turn 
Their  sweetness  into  speech. 


[101] 


FOR  JEAN 


ON  THANKSGIVING  DAY 

Of  course  you  don't  remember. 

But  I  guess  the  others  do, 
A  day  in  that  November 

When  the  world  was  new  to  you. 

In  the  garden  you  were  taken 
From,  the  sweetest  babies  grow, 

And  the  angels'  kisses  waken 

Them  from  slumber,  don't  you  know. 

They  brought  you  here  to  Mother, 
And  they  left  you  in  her  care; 

And  she  knew  that  such  another 
Baby  wasn't  anywhere ! 

You  had  just  started  living. 
And  you  hadn't  any  name ; 

But  truly  'twas  "  Thanksgiving  " 
When,  ten  years  ago,  you  came ! 


[102] 


LOVE'S  MIRACLE 


I  REACHED  a  way  of  ice  and  snow, 

A  barren  waste,  where  all  had  died ; 
Then  summer-winds  began  to  blow. 
And  flowers  along  the  path  to  grow, 
For  you  came,  walking  by  my  side. 


[103] 


INDEBTEDNESS 


You  owe  me  nothing,  Life ;  I've  had 
All  you  could  offer,  day  by  day; 

The  gay,  the  sad,  the  good,  the  bad, 
I've  taken  as  they  came  my  way. 

But,  Life,  I  know  that  I  will  be 
In  debt  to  you  when  we  shall  part, 

For,  full  and  free,  you  gave  to  me 
The  treasure  of  a  woman's  heart. 


[104] 


TO  HER 


I  SEND  to  you  no  orchid  rare  — 

Its  value  were  its  cost ; 
I  know  that  you  would  never  care 

For  that  where  price  is  most. 

I  do  not  offer  you  a  rose, 
The  flower  of  fond  desire ; 

Too  soon  the  perfumed  petals  close, 
And  fades  its  heart  of  fire. 

I  plucked  a  lily,  stately  cold, 
But  from  my  hand  it  slips ; 

That  were  too  chill  a  thing  to  hold 
Its  chalice  to  your  lips. 

And  now  I  seek,  half  hid  from  view. 
In  this  sweet  modest  spot, 

The  only  flower  I'll  give  to  you  — 
Just  a  forget-me-not. 


[105] 


SUNSET 


The  great,  red  river  rolled  its  golden  flood 
Upon  the  crimsoned  waters  of  the  bay, 
Where,  clinging  to  a  cloud,  the  tired  sun  lay, 
As  hesitant  to  trust  that  sea  of  blood. 
While  there,  upon  the  rocky  shore,  I  stood. 
Awed  by  the  burning  funeral-pyre  of  day. 
There  passed,  swept  by  the  ruddy  tide  away, 
A  fair  face,  staring  from  a  snowy  hood. 
The  glowing  light  lent  color  to  the  cheek 
The  water  pillowed  but  polluted  not ; 
The  lips  were  parted,  as  though  moved  to 
speak ; 

It  seemed  that  from  those  open  eyes  there  shot 
A  glance  to  bid  me  follow;  as  though  she 
Held  still,  in  death,  her  old,  sweet  coquetry. 


[106] 


CONTENTED 

Let  greater  ones  their  message  bring, 
For  which  the  world  has  waited  long, 

I  am  contented  just  to  sing 
My  little  song. 

Nor  care  I  if,  by  later  art, 

The  strain  too  simple  seems  to  be, 

I  sing  it  now  as  in  my  heart 
It  sang  to  me. 

And  if  it  tempt  a  single  smile 

Or  dry  a  solitary  tear, 
I  shall  account  it  well  worth  while. 

Though  few  may  hear. 


[107] 


THE  DEATH  OF  SUMMER 


There  is  dust  along  the  highway, 

There's  a  brownness  on  the  grass ; 
There's  a  rattle  in  the  by-way 

As  the  mullein-stalks  we  pass. 
All  the  meadow-land  is  hazy, 

Dim  the  hills  and  far  away ; 
Every  living  thing  seems  lazy 

With  the  languor  of  the  day. 
And  the  sumach  leaves  are  lying 

Like  a  dreadful  splotch  of  blood, 
On  the  hill  where  Summer,  dying. 

Holds  the  faded  golden-rod 
Like  a  tarnished  scepter,  clinging 

To  a  glory  that  is  past, 
Through  the  fleeting  day  now  bringing 

Her  bright  reign  to  end  at  last. 

Once  it  was  they  came  and  gowned  her 

In  a  mantle  green  and  gay, 
With  the  sunlight's  gold  they  crowned  her. 

Strewing  roses  in  her  way. 
Now  she  draws  her  robe  about  her. 

Frayed  and  stained,  and  yields  the  throne. 
And  the  Hours  run  on  without  her, 

Leaving  the  poor  Queen  alone. 
For  they  see  where  one  comes  dancing 

Through  the  woodland,  wanton  fair. 


[108] 


With  her  eyes  of  boldness  glancing, 
With  the  vine  leaves  in  her  hair ; 

And  they  hear  her  tales  of  wonder. 
And  they  trust  her  cunning  lies. 

As  she  leads  them  over  yonder, 
Past  the  hill  where  Summer  dies. 

Now  the  Days  are  all  a  tingle 

With  the  sparkle  of  the  air, 
As  the  grapey  odors  mingle 

With  the  apple  everywhere ; 
And  they  take  the  path  she's  taken, 

And  they  do  as  she  has  done. 
Till  one  morning  they  awaken 

Just  to  find  that  she  is  gone. 
Then  they  hug  the  sheltered  places 

And  they  fear  to  venture  forth. 
For  the  sting  is  in  their  faces 

And  the  wind  is  from  the  north ; 
And  the  snow  is  roughly  shaken 

Prom  the  storm-cloud,  far  and  wide. 
For  the  King  his  stand  has  taken 

On  the  hill  where  Summer  died. 


[109] 


MY  STAR 


I  HAVE  no  song  to  sing  to-night, 

For  thought  has  wandered  far ; 
My  eyes,  in  darkness,  strain  their  sight 
To  seek  a  star. 

To  seek,  through  all  the  empty  space 

That  is  about  me  now. 
The  lovely  brightness  of  one  face, 
Of  one  white  brow. 

Shine  on !    Though  other  happier  eyes 

Such  radiance  may  see. 
The  starry  way  to  Paradise 
Is  kept  for  me. 

Until  shall  come  a  kindlier  night 

The  cloud-gates  to  unbar; 
When  I,  with  nearer,  clearer  sight. 
Shall  see  my  Star ! 


[110] 


FIELD  FLOWERS 


Cowslips  and  clover, 

Sent  me  to-day ; 
Now  May  is  over, 

June  on  the  way. 
"  Take  her  kiss,  lover ! 

Is  what  they  say. 

First  her  lips  blessed  them. 

Sending  the  kiss ; 
Then  her  hands  pressed  them, 

Each  as  it  is. 
I  have  confessed  them  — 

They  told  me  this. 

Cowslips  and  clover 
Whisper  her  thought ; 

Prized  ten  times  over 

For  what  they  brought. 

Truly  I  love  her ; 
Surely  I  ought ! 


[Ill] 


SLEEP  WELL 


Good-night  !    And  when  the  drowsiness 

Is  drifting  into  sleep ; 
When  cheek  and  brow  the  pillow  press. 

And  breath  comes  long  and  deep ; 
When  darkness  holds  you  in  its  arms, 

Secure  from  prying  light, 
Then  comes  the  tender  dream  that  charms. 

Sleep  well,  Sweetheart, —  Good-night. 


[112] 


TRYSTING  TIME 


The  sun  is  up ;  the  sky  is  blue ; 

The  world  is  on  its  way ; 
And  only  waits  a  sight  of  you 

To  know  a  perfect  day. 
The  leaves  are  laughing  in  the  wmd, 

The  birds  sing  merrily ; 
So,  dearest  dear,  be  not  unkind, 

But  come  along  with  me. 

There  is  a  little  path  we  know, 

Half  sunshine  and  half  shade. 
Where  red  the  checker-berries  grow 

And  fairy-rings  are  made. 
There  out  of  sight  and  with  no  fear 

Of  listeners,  we  may  be, 
So,  sweetest  sweet,  if  you  would  hear 

Just  come  along  with  me. 


S 


[113] 


MY  SONG 


I  PLAYED  on  a  pipe  that  was  borrowed 

From  one  who  had  laid  it  aside; 
I  sang  of  the  hearts  that  had  sorrowed, 

Of  those  who  had  loved  and  had  died. 

But  no  one  gave  heed  to  my  playing, 
And  none  would  lend  ear  to  my  song, 

For  I  sang  what  all  had  been  saying, 
And  played  the  old  tunes  overlong. 

So  I'll  cut  me  a  reed  from  the  sedges. 

That,  rocked  by  the  wind,  strong  has  grown. 

And  there,  where  no  memory  hedges, 
I'll  sing  me  a  song  of  my  own. 


[114] 


LOVE  ASLEEP 


Little  Love  is  fast  asleep  — 

Kisses  tire,  and  laughter  too. 
Little  maiden,  do  not  weep, 
Let  Love's  slumbering  be  deep ; 
He  will  wake  to  joy  anew, 
He  will  wake  to  smile  on  you. 
Let  Love  rest  awhile. 

See,  his  cheek  is  rosy  red. 

Listen  to  his  breathing  low ; 
Do  not  fear  that  Love  is  dead. 
Pillow  on  your  breast  his  head ; 
Be  content  that  he  can  know 
Dreams  of  none  but  you ;  and  so 
Let  Love  sleep  awhile. 


s 


PERHAPS 


Perhaps,  dear,  you  and  I, 
Before  God  bids  us  die. 
Out  of  his  goodness,  may 
Live  one  long,  perfect  day 
Together  —  you  and  I. 

Perhaps,  love,  you  and  I, 
In  some  strange  by-and-by, 
May  know  a  better  rest 
For  waiting,  and  be  blest 
Together;  you  and  1. 


[116] 


THE  ANSWER 


"  Good-night  !  "    You  are  too  far  away 
To  hear  the  words  I  whisper  low, 

And  yet  whatever  I  shall  say 
It  seems  that  you  must  know. 

For  every  loving,  tender  thought 
That  bade  your  heart  less  lonely  be, 

Had  missed  its  mission  had  it  brought 
No  message  back  to  me. 

"  Good-night ! "    My    whisper    brings  you 
near, 

I  almost  hold  you  in  my  sight. 
And,  in  the  silence,  I  can  hear 
Your  answering  "  Good-night !  " 


[117] 


HEARTSEASE 


There  never  now  shall  come  to  me 

A  little  child  to  still 
The  mother-longing  that  must  be 

Without  responsive  thrill. 

I  may  not  whisper,  dear,  to  you 

The  secret  that  I  would, 
Though  it  is  sweet  to  feel  it  true 

That  you  have  understood. 

But  from  my  heart  you  now  shall  hear 
Why  still  my  lips  have  smiled : 

This  lack  has  made  you  doubly  dear, 
My  husband  —  and  my  child. 


[118] 


GOOD  WISHES 

I  COUNT  not  what  may  come  to  you 

Of  others'  praise  or  scorning, 
From  me  you  have  this  greeting  true  — 
"  Good-morning !  " 

I  know  not  what  the  hours  have  brought 

Of  loss  or  gain,  yet  I  will  say, 
In  passing,  with  a  hopeful  thought, 
"  Good-day !  " 

I  cannot  tell  what  may  await 

You  next  of  joy  or  sorrow, 
But  I  will  bid  you,  parting  late, 
"  Good-morrow ! " 

I  may  not  guess  what  sleep  may  bring 
Of  restless  dreams  or  visions  bright, 
Still  wish  you  now  a  comforting 
"  Good-niffht ! " 


[119] 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

Written  on  a  photograph  of  the  colored  poet 

As  on  the  darkest  face  of  night 

Shall  blush  the  wooing  of  the  morn ; 
As  God's  eternal  stars  of  light 

An  ebon  background  do  not  scorn ; 
As  both  the  dawn  and  starlight  are, 

Contrasted  with  the  shadow,  far 
More  wonderful  and  bright, 
So  what  is  shining  on  this  face, 

Across  its  darkness  surely  brings 
A  morning-promise,  for  a  race, 

A  harbinger  of  brighter  things. 
Wake,  hope !    The  morn  is  in  the  sky ; 
Wake,  hearts  !    The  night  is  passing  by ; 

Dunbar  still  lives,  and  sings! 


[120] 


THE  LAND  O'  DREAMS 


When  from  the  day  of  toil  we're  free 
And  dull  the  tired  world  seems, 

Then  take  my  hand  and  come  with  me 
Into  the  Land  o'  Dreams. 

And  as  the  rose-cloud  lifts  to  show 

Its  beauties  to  our  eyes, 
Then,  side  by  side,  we  too  shall  know 

The  poet's  paradise. 

We  shall  set  foot  upon  the  way 
That  leads  up  to  the  height 

Where  we  may  stand,  at  dawn  of  day. 
Bathed  in  the  magic  light. 

To  see  the  mysteries  unfold, 
Undreamed  of  until  now ; 

To  learn  of  wonders  yet  untold. 
That  earth  can  never  show. 

Where,  high  above  the  nesting  crag. 
The  great  war-eagle  flies. 

And  giant  fingers  strive  to  drag 
The  dawn-mist  from  the  skies ; 

Where,  far  below,  the  valley-land 
Still  in  the  shadow  sleeps. 

Unmindful  of  the  shining  band 
That  down  the  mountain  sweeps ; 

[121] 


To  show  us  that  whatever  we  seek 

It  lies  our  path  along  — 
The  calm  contentment  of  the  weak, 

The  struggle  of  the  strong; 

To  tell  us  that  though  steep  the  way 

And  ever  rougher  so, 
There  is  a  longer,  brighter  day 

The  higher  up  we  go. 

And  though  we  may  not  always  dwell  — 

Not  yet  —  in  wonderland, 
The  road  to  it  we  know  full  well. 

For  we  can  understand. 

And  every  time  we  journey  there. 

The  task  more  easy  seems 
To  bring  a  store  of  treasures  rare 

Back  from  the  Land  o'  Dreams. 


[122] 


HER  HANDS 


YouE  hands  —  they  are  still  mine  to  hold, 

To  caress ; 
So  slender  that  I  can  enfold 

And  may  press 
Them  in  mine  to  the  heart  that  you  know,  dear. 

Your  hands,  as  they  rest  on  the  keys, 

Seem  to  bless 
Sound  itself  in  the  old  melodies. 

None  the  less 
Are  they  sweet  because  heard  long  ago,  dear. 

Your  hands  are  not  shapely  and  white, 

I  confess ; 
Yet  beautiful  hands  in  my  sight, 

Por  I  guess 
How  labors  of  love  made  them  so,  dear. 

Your  hands  —  I  can  see  them  touch  now 

A  stray  tress 
Of  the  hair  that  lies  gray  on  your  brow. 

Loveliness 

Lies  too  where  the  little  lines  show,  dear. 

Your  hands  —  they  are  still  mine  to  hold. 

To  caress ; 
No  jewels  —  just  a  plain  band  of  gold  — 

For  their  dress ; 
But  the  hands  of  my  Lady,  I  vow,  dear ! 

[123] 


AN  OLD  LOVE  SONG 


I  WONDER  what  was  in  it 

That  its  note  could  touch  me  so ; 
A  tune  upon  a  spinet, 

Sounding  from  the  long-ago. 
And  the  strangest  thing  about  it 

Was  that  no  one  on  it  played, 
For  the  melody,  without  it. 

Rang  to  words  that  softly  said, 

\ 

"  /  love  thee!    And  thou  askest  why? 

Ask  of  the  stars  above  thee. 
They  know,  perhaps,  the  reason;  I  — 

/  only  know  I  love  thee!  " 

Then,  it  seemed,  a  hand,  so  slender. 

Rested  on  the  yellowed  keys. 
As  the  music  grew  more  tender, 

Like  a  wreath  of  melodies ; 
And  the  spirit-voice  kept  ringing 

Till  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes, 
For  a  singer,  dead,  was  singing 

Of  the  love  that  never  dies. 

'Twas  the  echo  of  a  passion 
Heard  a  hundred  years  away ; 

Though  the  spinet's  out  of  fashion, 
Yet  the  theme  is  new  to-day. 


[124] 


For  the  tender  words  endear  it 
To  our  hearts  in  accents  low, 

And  the  world  will  love  to  hear  it 
Still,  a  hundred  years  from  now. 

"  /  love  thee!    And  thou  askest  why? 

Ask  of  the  stars  above  thee. 
They  know,  perhaps,  the  reason;  I  — 

/  only  know  I  love  thee!  " 


[125] 


THE  RETURN  FROM  THE  TRENCHES 


Argonne,  1915 

"  Br-r-rum  !    Br-r-rum !  "    The  soldiers  come 

With  ragged  step  to  beat  of  drum. 

The  folk  run  out,  with  cheer  and  shout, 

And  dogs  and  children  run  about. 

"  Br-r-rum  1    Br-r-rum !  "    The  soldiers  come, 

But  from  their  ranks  are  missing  some. 

"  Dead !    Dead !  "    No  word  is  said, 
We  hear  it  in  the  broken  tread. 
A  victory  was  gained,  but  see 
Where  those  are  weeping  silently, 
"  Dead !    Dead !  "    No  word  is  said 
As  lips  go  pale  and  eyes  grow  red. 

"  On  !    On  !  "    To-day  is  one ; 
To-morrow  finds  the  task  undone. 
To  starve  and  strive  in  bloody  drive 
Is  still  the  work  for  those  alive. 
"  On !    On  !  "    Or  sire  or  son, 
The  dead  man  is  the  lucky  one ! 

"  Br-r-rum  !    Br-r-rum !  "    The  last  have  come. 

And  faintly  beats  the  distant  drum. 

The  clattering  feet  forsake  the  street, 

But  still  the  echoing  walls  repeat 

"  Br-r-rum!  Br-r-rum!  "  The  dead  have  come, 

And  march  in  to  the  ghostly  drum ! 

[126] 


HOPE-SONG 


On  many  another  page  I've  siing 

A  song  of  yesterday, 
On  themes  that  I  have  found  among 

Sad  thoughts  long  hid  away. 

Now  I  will  sooner  sing  the  song 
That  has  no  note  of  sorrow, 

No  vain  regret,  no  sense  of  wrong  — 
The  hope-song  of  to-morrow. 


[127] 


HOSPITALITY 


Little  Love  just  came  my  way  — 
Bleak  the  March  wind  blows. 

Why  he  chose  a  chilly  day 
Goodness  only  knows. 

But  my  heart  was  open  wide  — 
Tell  the  tale  once  more ; 

Little  Love  just  came  inside 

To  warm  —  and  closed  the  door ! 


[128]  / 

1 


AVE,  C^SAR! 


There's  a  voice  that  never  shall  be  stilled 
By  the  silence  of  the  sword, 

That  cries  of  pledges  unfulfilled  — 
An  empire's  broken  word. 

There  is  a  darkness  on  the  sky, 

Where  smokes  from  homesteads  roll 

Across  the  sun ;  that,  drifting  by. 
Leaves  a  shadow  on  your  soul! 

There  is  a  sight  that  shall  remain 
Through  all  that  you  contemn, 

F or  reddened  hands  have  touched,  to  stain, 
An  imperial  diadem. 

And,  as  time  takes  the  final  toll. 

The  record  will  go  down  — 
A  broken  pledge;  a  shadowed  soul; 

A  triple-tarnished  crown! 


[129] 

t 


IN  APPLE  TIME 


Your  gift  is  something  that  I  can 
With  fond  assurance  grapple, 

Though  trouble,  when  this  world  began, 
Commenced  just  with  an  apple ! 

But  you  have  turned  the  thing  around, 
For  your  dear  self  first  taught  me 

How  I,  by  love,  was  firmly  bound 
Ere  you  the  apple  brought  me. 

Its  cheek  is  smooth,  with  rosy  flush 
Just  where  the  sun  shone  on  it, 

As  I  have  seen  the  brighter  blush 
Seek  yours,  and  rest  upon  it. 

And  while  the  perfume  seems  to  be 
Its  own,  it  would  have  missed  it. 

But  that,  before  you  gave  it  me. 
Your  sweeter  lips  had  kissed  it. 

And  so  it  breathes  a  message  clear ; 

You  may  be  sure  I  heed  it. 
For  I  am  writing  to  you  here 

My  answer.    Can  you  read  it? 


[130] 


MISUNDERSTANDING 

It  was  a  tiny  cloud  that  swept 
Across  the  smiling  summer  sky ; 

That  soon  was  gone,  and  sunshine  swept 
The  shadow  of  its  drifting  by. 

It  brought  no  storm ;  it  gave  no  rain ; 

And  yet  it  left  this  doubt  with  me  — 
The  cloud  that  was  may  come  again, 

And  longer  in  its  passing  be. 


[131] 


A  WHITE  CHRISTMAS 

PUe  the  snow  beside  the  path; 

Break  the  drift  upon  the  track; 
Heart  of  joy  for  him  who  hath, 

Heart  of  hope  for  those  who  lack. 

Christmas-eve  the  snow-cloud  lifted 

And  the  moon  was  shining  down 
On  the  stretches  deeply  drifted, 

On  the  white  roofs  of  the  town, 
Where  were  houses  bright  and  cheery, 

Where  were  houses  dark  and  cold, 
Happy  homes  and  shelters  dreary; 

Gay  and  sad  the  stories  told. 
Here  the  little  children,  sleeping, 

Dream  of  wonders  they  believe ; 
There  are  put  to  bed  for  keeping 

Half-way  warm  on  Christmas  eve, 

Christmas  morn  the  bells  are  ringing 

On  the  crisp  air,  loud  and  clear; 
They  are  crying,  they  are  singing. 

That  depends  on  those  who  hear. 
There  the  children  well  are  faring. 

Yule-tide  j  oys  have  come  again ; 
Here  the  little  faces  staring 

At  the  frosted  window-pane. 

[132] 


There  a  gentle  face  is  glowing; 

Here  another,  gray  and  worn. 
Mother-hearts  fill  to  o'erflowing, 

Glad  or  sad  on  Christmas  morn. 


Heap  the  snow  along  the  road; 

Break  the  drifts  with  plow  and  sleigh; 
Passage  for  the  creaking  load! 

None  shall  lack  on  Christmas  Day! 


[133] 


WHITHER  AWAY,  SUMMER? 


There's  a  chill  in  the  kiss  of  the  night, 

And  a  mist  in  the  dawn  of  the  day ; 
There's  a  sigh  for  the  soon  fading  light  — 
Whither  away,  Summer? 
Whither  away? 

There's  a  haze  on  the  uttermost  hill, 

And  a  sough  where  the  maple-trees  sway ; 
There's  a  sob  in  the  wind,  calling  still, 
"  Whither  away.  Summer  ? 
Whither  away  ?  " 


[134] 


FOREVERMORE 

The  hopes  that  were  so  fair  and  bright, 

Are  withered  all,  and  dead ; 
And  only  echoes  come  to-night 

Of  words  that  once  were  said. 
I  cannot  sing ;  my  note  is  stilled ; 
The  voices  that  my  soul  once  thrilled. 

Are  hushed  forevermore. 

Beloved  children  of  my  brain, 
The  fondest  friends  I  knew. 

You've  left  me  now,  and  all  in  vain 
I  call  and  call  for  you. 

You  will  not  come  to  me,  alone ; 

I  drove  you  hence,  and  you  are  gone 
For  me  forevermore. 

Yet  from  the  mould  of  flowers'  decay 
Still  fairer  blossoms  spring. 

And  for  my  buried  hopes  there  may 
Be  an  awakening. 

Nothing  that  is  can  ever  die ; 

And  these  may  blossom,  by-and-by. 
To  bloom  forevermore. 

Forevermore ! 


[135] 


DONNER'S  DREAM 


'TwAs  in  the  olden  time.    All  that  long  night 
Erasmus  Donner  waked,  until  the  oil 

Was  low  beneath  the  lamp's  expiring  light 
That  told  of  many  hours  of  tiring  toil ; 

Until  the  window's  gloom  was  turning  gray, 

And  chill  the  night  grew,  waiting  for  the  day. 

Then  as  an  arrowy  glance  of  ruddy  light 

Flashed   through   the   casement's  lozenged 
pane,  it  fell 

Upon  the  shining  mystery  that,  bright. 
Was  dripping  from  the  rosy  crucible; 

And  when  the  drops  in  final  count  were  told 

The  crystal  jar  seemed  filled  with  liquid  gold. 

The  weariness  of  waiting  was  no  more. 

Then,  as  the  coming  day  upon  him  crept, 
With  that  bright  phial  on  the  ledge  before 

His  heavy  eyes,  Erasmus  Donner  slept. 
The  long,  long  nights  of  secret  search  were 
past. 

And  Life's  Elixir  he  had  found,  at  last. 

Then,  as  he  slept,  it  was  as  if  he  dreamed. 

He  stood  within  a  squalid  room,  so  bare 
And  comfortless  that  such  a  dread  spot  seemed 

A  place  for  every  soul  to  flee ;  but  there. 


[136] 


Beside  a  heap  of  rags,  on  which  there  lay 
A  sottish  woman,  was  a  child  —  at  play. 

And  still  he  dreamed. 

Before  his  fancy's  eyes 
A  curtain  lifted,  and  he  saw  within 
A  chamber  hung  with  scarlet  canopies, 

A  shrine  where  youth  might  learn  to  worship 
sin ; 

A  pleasure  place,  where  life  might  seem  to  be 
One  long  continued  dream  of  revelry. 

And  still  he  dreamed. 

He  saw  a  lonely  wood 
Through  which  a  pathway  wound.  Beside 
the  way 

There  was  a  strange,  repellent  pool  of  blood. 
And  half  within  its  horrid  bound  there  lay 
A  youth  whose  stiffening  fingers  clutched  the 
breast 

From  which  the  last  dark  drops  were  slowly 
prest. 

And  still  he  dreamed. 

He  saw  how  all  the  day 
A  woman  toiled  to  earn  a  blow  at  night ; 
He  saw  a  weeping  maiden  torn  away 

From  love  and  hope  by  wealth's  more  power- 
ful might ; 


[137] 


He  saw  the  few  rise  high  above  the  rest  — 
Each  step  they  mounted  was  a  human  breast. 

He  saw  a  brother  mourn  a  sister's  shame ; 

He  saw  a  mother  weep  a  wayward  son ; 
He  heard  a  daughter  curse  a  father's  name ; 

He  saw  the  right  so  oft  by  wrong  undone, 
That,  in  his  very  dream,  aloud  he  cried, 
"  If  that  be  life,  how  blessed  to  have  died !  " 

The  sun  shot  high.    Erasmus  Donner  woke. 

And  started  to  his  feet  in  dazed  surprise. 
"  Can  that  be  life?  "  were  the  first  words  he 
spoke ; 

And,  speaking  thus,  the  phial  met  his  eyes. 
"  'Tis  Life's  Elixir !  "    In  a  moment  more 
The  crystal  jar  lay,  shattered,  on  the  floor. 

Then,  as  the  golden  sunlight  brighter  streamed, 
Upon  his   bended  knees   Erasmus  Donner 
prayed : 

"  O  God !    If  life  can  be  what  I  have  dreamed, 

Accursed  is  the  draught  that  I  have  made. 
Let  me  but  learn  one  life,  that,  dying,  I 
May  teach  men  how  to  live,  and  how  to  die !  " 


[138] 


DUST  OP  ROSES 


Weary-like  they  come,  and  slow 

The  feet  that  danced  a  while  ago. 

Lips  that  laughed  are  drooped,  and  sigh 

For  kisses  of  the  days  gone  by, 

And  those  sad,  regretful  eyes 

Hold  no  more  than  memories. 

Must  hold  these,  like  pictures  seen 

On  some  brightly  lighted  screen. 

While  the  darkness,  all  around. 

Only  seems  the  more  profound. 

Who  are  these  who  sit  and  stare 

At  the  phantom  pageant  there. 

They  are  those  whose  feet  were  light. 

Lips  were  red,  and  eyes  were  bright ; 

Those  who  played  with  love,  and  thought 

But  of  what  the  moment  brought. 

Till  they  had  forgotten  how 

To  build,  to  hope,  to  dream ;  and  now 

They  shall  sit  before  the  screen 

Seeing  only  what  has  been ; 

Till  on  memory's  field  of  sight 

Time  shall  throw  a  last  "  Good-night !  " 


[139] 


THE  TEAR 


The  sculptor  had  labored  a  month  and  a  day 

To  mould,  with  skilful  hands, 
The  form  of  a  god  from  the  yielding  clay, 

That  still  unfinished  stands. 

The  figure  is  perfect,  each  curve  and  line 
Of  wondrous  strength  and  grace. 

But  the  head  is  mortal,  the  look  divine 
Is  not  upon  the  face. 

And  the  artist  knows  that  his  work  is  naught 

But  a  thing  of  common  clay ; 
That  'twas  only  Talent  who  with  him  wrought, 

While  Genius  stayed  away. 

Twin  sisters  are  these ;  so  alike  from  birth 

That  man  can  seldom  tell 
Which  is  the  one  who  lives  upon  earth. 

Which  with  the  gods  doth  dwell. 

And  the  sculptor  sees,  and  he  sorrows  much. 

For  the  lack  is  plain  and  real ; 
It  needs  some  subtle,  some  dreamed  of  touch. 

To  make  the  face  ideal. 


[140] 


Then  the  woman  who  loves  him  draws  tenderly 
near, 

With  a  kiss,  and  bends  above 
His  work,  and  there  falls  on  the  face  a  tear  — 
A  tear  from  the  eyes  of  love. 

And  the  sculptor  brushes  it  quick  away, 

Too  sweet  for  such  a  place ; 
And  his  gentle  touch  on  the  yielding  clay 

Changes  the  modeled  face. 

And  the  sculptor  sees,  with  a  fond  surprise. 

The  sought  expression  shine  — 
For  a  tear  of  love  from  a  woman's  eyes 

Has  made  the  clay  divine. 


[141] 


FRIENDSHIP 


Reach  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend, 
Across  that  separating  space; 

To  hear  your  voice  I  may  pretend, 
And  fancy  that  I  see  your  face. 

And  feel  your  kindly  grasp  meet  mine 

Across  the  dim  dividing  line. 

Sometimes  in  the  weary  fight 

I  can  seem  to  feel  your  touch  — 

Hopeful,  helping,  guiding  right  — 
A  gentle  force  that  means  so  much. 

Across  our  lives'  dividing  line 

Your  hand  is  surely  clasping  mine. 


[14£] 


AN  OLD  STORY 


When  Jack  and  Jill  were  young,  you  see, 
They  met  when  hearts  were  mellow ; 

He  saw  that  she  was  pretty ;  she 
Thought  him  a  handsome  fellow. 

Then  stroll,  and  talk,  and  moonlight  night 
Were  quite  enough  to  book  him ; 

His  draft  on  love  was  drawn  at  sight. 
Face  value  how  she  took  him. 

So  they  were  wed ;  and  settled  down 

To  learn  about  each  other ; 
And  found  the  one  that  each  had  known 

In  fact  was  quite  another ! 

Then  business  so  engrossed  him  that 

At  last  he  simply  boarded 
At  home,  and  gave  his  time  to  what 

She  left  of  all  he  hoarded. 

For  she  was  fond  of  gaiety 

(In  proper  moderation) 
And  seemed  to  think  that  life  should  be 

Perpetual  vacation. 

His  nature,  somehow,  never  lent 

Itself  to  what  she  cared  for. 
As  she  had  lots  of  temperament 

Which  he  was  ill  prepared  for. 

[143] 


The  tale  is  common.    You  can  find 

A  hundred  more  its  equal; 
So  you  will  quickly  call  to  mind 

The  inevitable  sequel. 

...    .  ..  .  .....„..„...., . 

.  • .  •  .1  ■ 

And  yet,  perhaps,  some  moonlight  night, 

Each  feels  a  trifle  lonely. 
For  thoughts  will  come  of  what  life  might 

Have  really  been,  if  only  —  f 


[144] 


THE  REVENGE  OP  THE  FLOWERS 


Suggested  by  a  painting — "Die  Blumen-Rache  " 

The  dance  is  done ;  the  hours  have  run 

Away  m  merry  measure, 
For  happiest  things  have  swiftest  wings 

To  bring  an  end  to  pleasure. 

The  lights  are  out ;  the  guests  have  gone, 

The  birthday-ball  is  over ; 
The  daughter  of  the  house,  alone. 

Lies  dreaming  of  her  lover. 

She  sleeps.    Her  bosom  gently  swells ; 

The  rosy  lips  are  parted; 
The  ring  upon  her  finger  tells 

Whose  kiss  those  blushes  started. 

The  counterpane  has  slipped  away 
And,  charmed,  the  moonbeams  hoven 

Sweet  innocence !    What  star  shall  say 
What  grace  it  may  discover.?^ 

The  snowy  linen  feels  the  thrill 

Of  each  heart-beat ; 
The  dimpled  knees  are  crossed;  and  still 

The  weary  feet. 
Steal  in,  chill,  chaste  moonlight ! 
She  sleeps  —  pass  on,  0  night ! 
•  •••••• 


[145] 


Beside  her  bed,  upon  a  stand 

Of  wood,  inlaid  with  many  a  band 

Of  silver,  is  a  vase  of  flowers ; 
Exotics  of  a  strange  perfume 
By  careful  nursing  coaxed  to  bloom 

In  this  far  land  of  ours. 
Betrothal  flowers  her  lover  gave ; 
Fit  for  a  bridal  —  or  a  grave. 

O  lover !  didst  thou  never  hear 

That  even  flowers  have  souls,  and  fear 

To  rudely  pluck  them? 
Never?    Ah,  then  thou  knewest  less 
Than  butterfly  that  doth  caress. 

Or  bees  that  suck  them. 
But  thou  shalt  learn  the  truth,  and  she 
Thou  lovest,  in  death  shall  teach  it  thee. 

Now  from  every  blossom  springs 

A  sprite  on  wings  ! 
Strange  fairy-creatures  seem  to  come 
From  every  calyx,  and  the  room 
Grows  heavy  with  the  odors  of  the  South. 
The  Spirits  of  the  Flowers  are  everywhere ; 
They  hover  near  her  in  the  heavy  air ; 
They  kiss  her  forehead,  eyes,  and  mouth. 
"  Revenge ! "  they  whisper  as  her  lips  grow 
pale ; 

"  Revenge !  "  they  whisper  as  her  cheeks  go 
white ; 

[146] 


The  moonbeams  haste  away  in  fright, 
And  from  the  sky  the  misty  veil 

Is  drawn  away, 

And  breaks  the  day. 

•         *        »        »        •  • 

And  when  they  come  to  dress  her  she  is  dead. 
The  flowers  are  withered.    From  that  bed 

They  lift  her  but  to  shrive  her. 
Open  the  window;  but  the  morning  air, 
Though  it  may  fan  her  brow  and  stir  her  hair, 

Cannot  revive  her. 
The  loving  heart  has  ceased  to  beat ; 
Forever  still  the  little  feet. 
The  flowers'  revenge  is  none  the  less  complete 

That  they  are  lifeless  there. 


[U7] 


IN  GOD'S  ACRE 


We  walk  together,  side  by  side, 

We  feel  the  touch  of  hands ; 
We  gaze  across  the  star-sea  wide, 

And  dream  of  mist-hid  lands. 

They  leave  us,  and  we  mourn.    But  why? 

If  we  had  only  known, 
The  day  we  thought  it  was  "  Good-by ! 

They  were,  at  last,  our  own. 


[148] 


MARGERY  IN  THE  COUNTRY 


Song  for  a  little  lady 

Beneath  the  apple  tree, 
A  bower  cool  and  shady 

For  one  so  fair  as  she. 

The  blossoms  spend  their  sweetness  — 

She  takes  it  for  her  own ; 
The  morning  gains  completeness 

Since  her  bright  face  was  shown. 

A  sunbeam,  caught  in  straying 

Through  branch  and  blossom  there, 

Sweet  penalty  is  paying 
Imprisoned  in  her  hair. 

She  laughs ;  the  robin  pauses 

In  morning-song  to  hear, 
Pretending  that  the  cause  is 

A  thing  a  bird  might  fear. 

The  squirrel,  on  the  fence,  that 
His  racing  home  has  stayed. 

Sits  still,  with  no  pretense  that 
Her  voice  makes  him  afraid. 

Though  by  the  years  I'm  parted 

From  all  that  lies  along 
The  path  her  feet  have  started 

I  still  may  sing  this  song. 

[149] 


To  innocence  and  beauty 

Each  man  must  bend  the  knee, 

As  I,  in  loving  duty, 
To  Lady  Margery. 


[150] 


QUATRAINS 


LOVE'S  MAGIC 


Time  touched  her  lightly,  leaving  but  a  trace ; 
Care  gave  her  lips  that  softness  when  they 
speak ; 

Now  love  has  wrought  a  marvel  on  her  face, 
And  youth  returns,  once  more  to  kiss  her 
cheek. 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  WHEEL 

I  liAUGHED  at  Life;  my  wealth  of  days  I  threw 

Upon  the  game,  and  lost  them  heedlessly ; 
Now,  when  with  trembling  hands  I  hoard  the 
few 

That  still  I  count  as  mine.  Life  laughs  at  me. 


ASPIRATION 

Why  should  I  write  of  doubt  and  dead  desire. 
Seeking  a  stream  where  turbid  waters  run  ? 

I'll  light  my  altar  from  dawn's  rosy  fire 
And  strive  to  be  a  singer  in  the  sun. 

THE  NIGHT 

A  SLEEPLESS,  memory-haunted  night. 

Each  counted  hour  seemed  doubly  long ; 

Then  through  the  darkness  shone  a  light. 
And  from  the  silence  came  a  song. 

[153] 


THE  TEMPTERS 


He,  was  his  own  worst  enemy !  " 
Thus  our  companion's  story  ends. 
We  shift  the  blame ;  the  truth  is,  we 
Were  his  worst  enemies  —  his  friends. 


HOPE 

Daekness,  and  haunting  fear  to  miss  the  way, 

And  always  heavier  the  load, 
Till,  with  the  coming  of  despair,  the  day 

Breaks  through  the  night,  and  shows  the 
road. 


EXPERIENCE 

The  love  you  wakened  was  life's  leaven, 
And  then  the  death  of  yours  befell ; 

Our  meeting  was  a  proof  of  Heaven, 
Our  parting  taught  belief  in  Hell. 

THREE  ARE  COMPANY 

A  LITTLE  room ;  a  cushioned  seat ; 

A  shaded  half-light  from  above; 
A  curtained  door;  a  silence  sweet. 

And  we  three  —  you  and  I,  and  Love ! 


[154] 


UNFULFILLED 


I  SENT  my  thoughts,  like  bees  awing, 
Life's  hidden  sweetness  gathering; 
Then  turned  away  for  wealth  to  strive, 
Nor  guessed  that  thus  I  closed  the  hive. 

THE  POOL 

Forgive  me,  that  I  dared  to  look; 

Believe  me  that  I  did  not  see : 
The  sunlight  spun,  from  bough  to  brook, 

A  golden  veil  twixt  you  and  me!  , 

THE  LIE 

He  told  it  once,  but  no  one  heard ; 

Twice,  and  a  few  received  it; 
Three  times,  and  more  caught  up  the  word ; 

The  fourth  time  some  believed  it, 

FEBRUARY'S  GARDEN 

Along  the  road,  where  drifts  lie  deep 
And  creaks  the  sledge  with  sullen  load. 

The  wayside  garden  lies  asleep 

Till  Spring  shall  pass  along  the  road. 


[155] 


GOSSIP 


'Twas  born  in  malice;  and,  forsooth, 
It  throve  on  spite,  and  would  not  die; 

The  truth  —  that  was  but  half  a  truth, 
The  lie  —  that  was  not  all  a  lie. 

VALE! 

The  passing-bell  tolls  loud  and  deep 
As  Midas'  body's  laid  away; 

Pity  he's  dead,  and  cannot  weep  — 
They  bury  his  best  friend  to-day ! 

THE  CALL 

A  LITTLE  song  was  in  my  heart ; 

I  did  not  guess  its  presence  there. 
You  called ;  and  from  my  lips,  apart, 

'Twas  born  upon  the  happy  air. 

PARTING 

I  FEEL,  your  kiss  upon  my  cheek. 

Cold  as  a  flake  of  snow,  as  light; 

That,  at  the  formal  words  you  speak. 
Leaves  nothing  but  a  tear  to-night. 


[156] 


DREAMS 


SwKETHEAUT,  wiU  jou  dream  With  me? 
If  so,  then  your  dreams  shall  be 
Of  yourself,  because— 'tis  true  — 
AH  my  dreams  are  just  of  you . 

COINCIDENCE 

I  WROTE  a  line  that  seemed  to  be 
The  best  one  ever  penned  by  «i« ' 
Till  on  a  page  I  chanced  to  look 
My  thought  was  printed  in  the  book  I 

B.  C.  AND  A.  D. 

In  olden  days  cold  marble  woke 

To  life  at  words  till  then  unknown. 

Alas !  how  changed  t    Of  love  I  spoke, 

And  straight  my  goddess  turned  to  stone! 


[157] 


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